Suddenly he stopped and said: I did not like the suta. I said to my cousin brother right away, this one will bring trouble.” He knew what he was doing with his bow all right, hardly moved his fingers or looked where he was shooting. And he was quicker and neater than anybody else. But what a face he had.” Again he twisted his features into what he must have thought was aristocratic contempt and, turning his face sideways, he gave us an insolent look from under lowered lids. “Well, as you can imagine, Prince Duryodhana saw his chance and leapt at it.”
“Why,” said Krishna, “if he had such an ugly look?”
“I have just been telling you he was the incarnation, the God of Arrogance himself, poor boy. You see he was a suta and the second Pandava son Prince Bheema did not half tell him that he was. But Prince Duryodhana, without so much as a by-your-leave to his father, made him a king of some place on the coast. Anga it was.” He pointed west instead of east. “Well, hardly were the words out than they started splashing coronation water on Karna’s head, fitting him out with crown and sword and all the other paraphernalia of royalty. Better than a puppet show it was, because who should come tottering in but a decrepit suta. And Karna had to lay his crown aside and take the dust from his feet. It was his father, you see. My daughters wept. They love to weep.” He thrust his head forward and whispered it to us as though it were a family secret. “They still fill my grandchildren’s heads with the stories. My opinion, if you want it, is that Duryodhana would have died a better death if Karna had kept out of it unless someone pushed him off a cliff. He was a jealous prince and Karna fed his wish to rule, like a mother vulture feeds her nestling.”
“He sounds an altogether wicked character,” said Krishna.
“He was. He certainly was. But then that second brother, Bheema, had given it to him good and strong. And what I and my daughters say is that the suta never did forgive him. Princes should be taught to hold their tongues, especially in public. Old Greatfather Bheeshma was sitting there. He could do nothing. They say he saw it coming, he knew. He disliked Karna just as I did. But he was not the father. He had to sit there like a eunuch on account of having given up his throne. And as for Dhritarashtra,” our host sat back to take a better look at him. He shook his head, “He let his darling boy do everything. ‘You want a kingdom for your friend, my son? Yes, give him anything.’ So now you see how it all went. The only people who had any sense had given up their power or were sutas like Sanjaya and Vidura. But it was beautiful, that show. By the great God Indra, it was beautiful.” He thought a moment. “How old are you? You must have been there.”
“I was,” I said, “and I remember it, though I was but a child.”
Krishna said: “I was not there.”
“How so?” said the farmer.
“I lived in Dwaraka and had some family business to attend to. You know the desert lies between the coast and Hastinapura.”
“Dwaraka, Dwaraka? Now isn’t that the place where Krishna, that they call Paramatma, comes from?”
“Yes,” I said, “he is the Lord of Dwaraka.”
“They say when he speaks he can make anybody do his will. He sweettalks them. They say it is like wine and honey in your veins. I never saw him. Did you?”
“I did,” I said.
“And is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Then how is it that he did not stop the war? They say he tried. They say he can work miracles. Then surely that was the time to do it. Why did he not?” There was no answer. The old man nodded. “If I were Krishna…You see, those Kaurava princes had been wicked at the dice game. Shakuni was a scoundrel. A crafty one he was, I saw him at the tournament. Between him and that Rotten-fish-under-the-nose and a few others, they nailed down what the stars might leave unfinished. He cheated. They say he had some occult powers too. They say the dice he used were made from the bones of his dead father. His father had been put in prison by the Kauravas. They say his father told him the dice game would be the beginning of the end of all the Kauravas. They say all sorts of things. They say they tried to disrobe the queen. They say she was in her period. Now, I certainly don’t believe that.” He shook his head. “Not even animals would do that. Mind you, with all respect to my Lords, the Kshatriyas actually do some nasty things. But to disrobe a queen in her period in the sabha—no one is low enough for that. Nobody here believed it.”
“I am glad no one believed it,” said Krishna. “It shows that your thoughts are noble.”
“Yes, I daresay, I am as noble as a lot of those who strut around,” he strutted a few steps. “I am all for a king like Yudhishthira. They say he does not spare himself. He listens to the plaintiffs day and night and thinks of people’s good.”
“Have you heard about the big sacrifice he will offer, the one that has not been offered in the life of any living man nor that of our fathers?” Our host thought for a moment and his eyes widened in disbelief.
“Not the Ashwamedha?” he said.
“Yes,” we said together. His voice almost made me want to say, “I shall follow the horse,” but the mere idea of the Ashwamedha had pulled the man out of his wine. His eyes glowed with intelligence and hope.
“The Ashwamedha,” he kept on saying, “The Ashwamedha, oh then…” He rubbed his forehead as though to prepare his mind. “The Ashwamedha destroys all sins. There is no greater sacrifice. It will wipe away the blood that came from all over the world to be spilt at Kurukshetra. If King Yudhishthira offers the Ashwamedha we are assured of everything. The rains will fall, the crops will grow, and the shops will be full.” Suddenly he got up and performed Ashwatthama’s dance. “Merrily, merrily, plow.”
Krishna rose and joined him, and passing pulled me in. His wife, a genial woman with a broad face, stood smiling by the door.
“I am pleased to see, my Lords, that Kshatriya gentlemen do the same as the likes of us when they have had enough to drink. Now if you seat yourselves, your meal will be served.” She brought water to pour over our hands and as I stretched mine out, she said, “If you will pardon my saying so, my Lord, you have the look and bearing of the Pandavas as I remember them. You really do look like one of them that I once saw in Hastinapura’s great tournament when I was young.” I drew them back as though the water had scalded them, thinking she saw the scars on both my arms. Some of the water spilt on the floor of beaten earth and she apologized and said, “He was so handsome and had such a way about him that it opened your heart wide, until the suta’s son Karna was given the coronation bath right there in front of everyone. Prince Arjuna was his name, the one you look like. Mighty handy with his bow and arrow he was. And such a smile! They all looked different—even the twins, the one dark and beautiful, and the other fair and beautiful.”
I began to breathe freely again, for now her talk had turned to describing in flowery detail the beauty of the twins. “As for the others, they did not look like brothers, not one bit. You must have seen Prince Bheema, they say that he can eat an elephant and wash it down with sips of wine.” This bit of hearsay tickled her so that she laughed and repeated it twice.
“Wife, ladies at the court are not allowed to talk so much,” the old man said from his sitting position as if he was now intent on following royal protocol. “Serve us our meal.” The woman looked bewildered—she thought we might be offended at his eating with us. Krishna put her at her ease. But there was no stopping her, she continued to address me: “But you look like the youngest of Queen Kunti’s sons. His hair was curly just like yours and you even have his cheekbones which were a little high. But your nose is somewhat different. I remember all the noses I have seen. And your earlobes are longer than his. But he was a Pandava prince, such a charmer, and he could not half but know it. You could not imagine him sitting with us like this.”
“He is from that part of the country,” said Krishna. “And all the Kshatriya princes are related. There are cousins and cousins and second cousins and second cousins, you should not even try to sort them out.” Thi
s simple explanation made perfect sense to the woman.
“Aye, that is so true,” she said and brought in great earthen bowls of steaming rice and served it on our plaited leaves. Her daughter came in behind her with the utmost modesty, carrying meat dishes. I lowered my eyes, hoping she was the one who dreamt of Karna.
When we left the house our hosts were at the door to see us off with joined palms held high.
With more than the hosts’ ritual parting words they bid us return soon again and without fail. “If ever you go to the court of Hastinapura tell King Yudhishthira that his people pray for him,” called the woman and the old man added something else. All we could hear was: “Ashwamedha…”
At first light, as we prepared to leave our resting place in the forest, we found a woman standing near us. Krishna and I were refilling our water pouches from the river. It was too dark to see her clearly except that I sensed her beauty. I thought she had a limp.
“Take us with you,” she said. The limp turned out to be a little boy hidden in her skirts.
“I wish we could,” I said, not wanting to offend her. “My friend and I are on a mission.” And then I saw the boy. He had the face that Abhimanyu must have had when he was six. Krishna had seen it first for he was gazing at the child.
“You are Kshatriyas,” she said. You can tell a Kshatriya from the swing in his gait and from his outline on the darkest night. I nodded.
“I want to go to King Yudhisthira’s court. Are you going that way?” It gladdened me that they already spoke of it as King Yudhisthira’s court.
“What will you do there?” I asked.
“I want employment as a sairandhri.”
“There are plenty of courts, why King Yudhisthira’s?”
“I worked for years in the court of King Jayadratha. Too many years, in fact. I served his queen but he was killed at Kurukshetra. It is his son who reigns, he is a womanizer like his father, only worse, and his queen I cannot serve. I want my son to learn weapons at the great academy in Hastinapura.”
“Do you think they will accept him?” asked Krishna.
“His father was a Kshatriya, but in any case some people say that all their best young Kshatriyas are dead, and it is so in the Kingdom of the Sindhu, and they will have to open up their doors now.” Even as we spoke, the light entered and shone on the woman’s beauty. Her lotus eyes sloped towards her temples like those of the ladies of the north-east. Her nose was sharp and fine. Her full and soft mouth curled in bitterness at the edges.
“Shall we sit?” said Krishna, and spread a mat. We all sat down, the child in Krishna’s lap. They were smiling at each other. They sat as Abhimanyu and his uncle Krishna must have done. The child twisted his head around and looked up without shyness.
“Do you want to learn how to use weapons and be a Kshatriya warrior?” asked Krishna. I think he knew the answer, but it surprised me.
“No.”
“A man should learn to protect his mother, his wife, and his daughters,” the mother said.
“Only the All-Creator can do that.”
Even his calm way of speaking was like Abhimanyu’s. I would have liked to know who had taught him this, but left the questions to Krishna.
“What will you do then?”
“I want to go to Dwaraka and see Krishna. When Queen Draupadi was in trouble in the sabha, only Krishna saved her and not the Kshatriyas.”
I gazed at him. “You are quite right, my son. It was Krishna and not the Kshatriyas.”
“Well, Krishna did not save me,” she said.
“You have not called him like Queen Draupadi did,” the child said.
Our Draupadi of the sabha had become a goddess who now gave others her courage. I asked the woman how the child knew.
“Everybody knows about the war,” she said, “and everybody knows it started at the dice game.”
We did not know exactly what her trouble was but judging from the way she had addressed herself to us, anyone could see that she was fiercely independent. Day dawned and accentuated her beauty. There were no visible flaws. Her skin was velvet, with an auspicious mole upon her cheek. Her lashes were long and curved. Her blue-black hair was arranged in braids around a central knot, with flowers woven into it. Her nails curved like tortoise shells. She was not unlike Draupadi. The proud set of her head and neck seemed defiant and challenging.
“I think Queen Draupadi will help you,” Krishna said. “She is a queen of great compassion. And when Prince Arjuna opens the Yuddhashala once again he will look after you. He is the greatest friend of Krishna’s. They are as one. And he will understand. Tell him to call you Premadasa,” he said to the small boy. We put gold coins into the woman’s hand. I thought the child would cling and cry but when Krishna said that we would meet again on our return to Hastina, he smiled radiantly and joined his hands in salutation.
We rode in silence for a while. I saw that Krishna had not left the child behind and said: “Draupadi’s nightmare inspires him.”
“Every minute, evil is changed into its opposite.” He slowed our horses to a canter. We followed the river’s course whose current came to meet us in little gleaming waves. Through the leaves the sun caressed our skin at intervals, and I was left to think of what he said.
35
We met many people on the road to Indraprastha, and indeed Krishna seemed to draw them to his heart with threads of understanding. But the face that I remembered best was of the old man who had fallen by the roadside.
Planning to rest, we had slowed our horses when we found him. He beckoned us feebly. Dismounting we approached him.
“I am dying,” he said through parched lips. He did not need to tell us. We carried him into the shade of a banyan tree. “I was on my way into the forest, to shed my body there,” he said between his gasps. “But when the time came to turn off the road I think I fainted. I cannot move.” He gave a rueful smile. “I did not want to die alone.” Krishna had his left hand; I took the other. His breathing became easier. “I am not afraid of going. I have a wife and two sons waiting when Yama pulls my soul free with his noose. I know that Pushan, God of Journeys, will see me through.” There was a silence. The old man sighed. After a while he said, “I think some god has sent you, for you are Kshatriyas.” His eyes were troubled. He sighed again and whispered in a spurt, “I cursed the race of Kshatriyas.”
“You will not have been the first,” I said.
“A Kshatriya carried off my daughter. They think they can take anything they like. And when he wearied of her, she drowned herself. I cursed him and I cursed the race of Kshatriyas.” Panting, the old man asked for water and propped himself upon his elbow. “First I did much penance. I went to Mother Ganga and said to her, ‘If I stand in your icy waters from dawn to midday for two whole winters, grant me the power.’ ” Now years later with all the lads dead after the great battle, and with the thought that all their fathers and their mothers weep, I can no longer sleep. I have not slept for two moons and more; each night in the third watch I see the dead kings and their sons, the soldiers and the animals. They lie in piles and twisted heaps and that is why I lie here. The curse comes back to me.” Krishna stroked his hair and said: “Grandfather, how long ago was it you cursed the race of Kshatriyas?”
“It is twenty years today.”
“Then I will tell you something. It is not your curse that killed them. It is we Kshatriyas who brought the curse upon ourselves because we did not heed our Dharma. Neither twenty years nor two hundred in the icy waters of the Ganga could make us kill each other if it were not ordained.” The man gazed at Krishna in astonishment. After a while his pupils moved slightly. Krishna intoned the hymn for peace:
These five sense organs, with the mind as the sixth,
Within my heart, inspired by Brahmin,
By which the awe-inspiring is created,
Through it to us be peace!
Then I joined in. The old man said some of the words between his breaths. As we went on, his
breathing became easier and he began to smile. He would die easy now. All at once the forest came to life again with new intensity.
Gracious be Mitra, gracious Varuna,
Gracious Vishnu and Prajapati,
Gracious to us be Indra and Brihaspati,
Gracious to us Aryaman.
“Gracious be Mitra, gracious Varuna,
Gracious be Vivaswat and Death,
Gracious the calamities of earth and atmosphere,
Gracious the wandering planets.
“Let us have our meal in this place,” said Krishna. “It is as good as any other for a picnic.” By now, I was used to Krishna’s unexpected twists and turns with words and things, though to offer picnics to the dying seemed out of place. But once the words were in the air, the shadow of death shortened by a bow-length.
The old man asked to be propped up against a tree. Lord Yama tied his rope around his waist and smiled before retreating. Krishna held a bowl of rice before the old man’s mouth. He squinted down at it not knowing what to do. But once the food was on his tongue, he chomped on it and after several mouthfuls Krishna placed a leaf upon his lap, heaped with rice and curds and condiments. The old man’s hand reached out and slowly it stopped trembling. At last he rinsed his mouth out with the water that we gave him, then looked to us for final judgement.
“Grandfather,” I said, “Lord Yama has gone home and so will you.” We all three lay down upon the kusha mat beneath the banyan tree and let the old man sleep. His sleep was full of gentle snores. A sudden snort awoke him. He looked around in puzzlement before he recognized us. Then with a toothless smile, he struggled to his knees and put his head on Krishna’s feet and then on mine. We helped him up and watched him hobble of. From time to time he looked over his shoulder, smiled his embarrassment and gratitude, and waved his stick.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 67
