by Unknown
Subhadra: Suyodhana's first love, and later wife of his greatest foe - Arjuna.
Takshaka: Leader of the rebel Nagas, he wishes for a revolution whereby the Shudras and Untouchables will become the rulers and the high castes their slaves. He is a fierce warrior and a megalomaniac dictator in the making.
Vasuki: Deposed Naga King; he is old and frail, but desperately wants the kingship back. He believes Takshaka is leading his people to destruction.
Jarasandha: The King of Magadha. In his kingdom, merit rules instead of caste.
General Hiranayadhanus: Father of Ekalavya and Commander-in-Chief of Jarasandha's army, he has risen from the lowliest caste, the Nishadas, by dint of his own merit and the friendship of King Jarasandha.
Mayasura: A great architect and a low caste Asura.
Indra: The last King of the illustrious Deva Empire. Living in penury in the forest, he wants to make a secret weapon for his son, Arjuna, without which he fears his son is doomed.
Dhaumya: An ambitious and unscrupulous Priest, he acts as Parashurama's eyes, ears, and arm, in Hastinapura. His aim is a perfect society where Priests will decree and the rest follow. He is Kunti and Yudhishtra's chief advisor.
Purochana: A corrupt but efficient bureaucrat in league with Shakuni.
Durjaya: A man of the gutters, he rules the dark underworld of Hastinapura. A crime lord, he engineers riots, and is in the pay of the Gandhara Prince, Shakuni. Krishna [black] Dwaipayana [born on an island] Vedavyasa [chronicler of the Vedas]: A great scholar, and author of the Mahabharata, the Mahabhagavatha (the longest epic in the world), and eighteen Puranas, he also codified and edited the Vedas and is considered the patron saint of all writers. Son of Satyavathi (a fisherwoman) and Parashara, he is the Grand Regent's step-brother. He is also the biological father of Pandu, Dhritarashtra and Vidhura, and thus the grandfather of all the main protagonists of the Mahabharata.
And finally, the most unimportant characters in the book:
Jara and his blind dog Dharma: A deformed beggar, Jara lives on the dusty streets of India, accompanied by his blind dog, Dharma. Illiterate, ignorant, frail, and dirt poor, he is one of the many who believe in the divinity of Krishna. He is a fervent devotee of the avatar. An Untouchable, rejected by all and spurned by most, yet Jara rejoices in the blessings of his beloved God and celebrates life.
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Prelude
GANDHARA
IT WAS RAINING HEAVILY when the General entered the palace. Except for the dull rhythm of the falling rain, the palace was eerily silent. The General halted at the foot of the wooden stairs, his heart filled with apprehension. Pools of water formed strange patterns at his feet in a curious shade of red, made more prominent by the lily whiteness of the cold marble floors. He adjusted his battledress and winced as blinding pain shot through him. He was bleeding from many wounds, yet he held his tall and powerful frame erect. A cold wind from the distant snow-covered peaks ruffled his long, dark beard and pierced his body as if with icy shards. He was chilled to the bone, unused to these rugged mountainous terrains and snow-laden passes. He was from the East, a son of the vast Gangetic plains. The naked sword he gripped in his right hand had slain scores of warriors in the past hour.
A few paces apart, his men stood reverently. The rain had lost its fury and become a drizzle. Rainwater dripped from the roof into the gutters, forming eddies of darkness before rushing down the mountainside to join the waters flowing through the distant and dusty plains to the sea, carrying with it human flesh and the blood of unknown warriors who had guarded the mountain city of Gandhara just a few hours before.
The General stood stiff and unmoving, frowning at the faint sounds of sobbing coming from the floor above. Somewhere a cock crowed, followed by the clucking of hens. A peddler cried out his wares from outside the fort walls, and a bullock cart passed by, the jingling of its bells fading away. The General took a tentative step to climb the stairs but stopped again. Something had caught his eye. He bent down painfully and picked it up. It was a wooden cart with a broken wheel - a little boy's toy. A smear of blood had dried on its broken side. With a sigh, the General started climbing up. The steps groaned in protest. As if on cue, the sobbing stopped.
The long verandah ran a considerable distance, vanishing into shadow. It started snowing and the white flakes fell on the wooden benches placed along the corridor, forming strange shapes. The General walked slowly, careful not to step on the dead soldiers. He held the broken toy in his left hand and a curved Indian sword in his right. He hated the snow and the bitter cold of the mountains and longed for the sunny plains of his homeland. He wished only to finish this task and get back to the banks of the Ganga. He paused to listen. There was a rustling of clothing and he sensed somebody waiting for him within. His wounded body tensed. The toy in his hand had become a burden. 'Why did I pick it up?' he wondered. But now he did not now wish to throw it away. With the tip of his sword, he slowly pushed at the half-open door. The General entered the room, his tall and broad silhouette throwing dark shadows into the dim room. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he saw her; partly veiled by the shadows that cloaked the room. She sat with eyes downcast and her arms wrapped around her knees. She looked tired of waiting for her fate. The warrior's tense muscles relaxed a little as he let out a weary sigh. 'Thank God, no more bloodshed today,' he thought.
An oil lamp in the corner apologetically spread a small circle of dull light. It only served to amplify the darkness beyond the reach of its frail aura. The General turned up the wick and a golden light fell upon the exquisitely beautiful woman. 'My fate is to bring unhappiness to such beautiful creations of divinity,' he thought with sudden anger. He cursed the day he had impulsively taken the oath of celibacy to satisfy his father's lust. It had made almost all the women in his life unhappy and ruined the lives of some. 'Today, I add one more to that unhappy list,' he thought in frustration, and then ruefully chuckled at the irony of fate which deigned that a celibate like himself should hunt women and spill blood for them.
Pushing aside his dark thoughts, the General made an elaborate bow to the lovely woman before him. "Daughter, I am Gangadatta Devavrata, Grand Regent of Hastinapura. You may perhaps have heard the name Bhishma. I have come to seek your hand in marriage for my nephew, Dhritarashtra, Prince of Hastinapura."
In the thick silence that ensued, Bhishma kept his gaze averted from the lovely grey eyes that burned with such fire. In the years to come, Bhishma would always remember those eyes staring into his own, even when they were hidden from the world. The girl let out a wrenching sob that pierced his heart. Collecting herself, she stood up, raised her head, and said with majestic dignity, "Grand Regent Bhishma, I trust Gandhara has not failed in its hospitality towards you. I apologise that my father is not here to greet you himself. I, Gandhari, Princess of Gandhara, welcome you in his name."
Bhishma stood paralysed by the icy chill of her voice. He felt a strange urge to confess everything to her; to justify the acts he had been forced to commit for the sake of his kingdom. He felt small and mean before this young girl who carried herself with such dignity and composure in the face of so much tragedy. Bhishma felt like a brute. He wished his anger would return so that he could take her by her narrow waist and ride off to Hastinapura with her, like a warrior of fable. But he could not; he was a warrior of the old school and a man of chivalry.
"I do not have a choice do I, Sir? When the Regent of Hastinapura decides which maiden is to be stolen as a bride for his nephew, what choice do we, who live on the borders of the great Indian empire, have? Do not perturb yourself... our resistance is at an end. Gandhara has been routed as you intended. I am your captive and shall go with you to become your blind nephew's bride."
Bhishma found he had lost the ability to speak. He looked into the distance, at the snowy slopes of the mountains and thought she could finish him off right now with a quick thrust of a dagger into his back. Yet he did not
want to face her and gaze into those grey eyes. Being stabbed by this beautiful woman would be a good way to end his dry life; it was better than knowing such beautiful women existed in the world but all he could do was steal them on behalf of his incompetent or impotent nephews, or whichever fool sat on the throne of Hastinapura. Life had been a series of battles, treachery, politics and intrigue, and he was weary of it - the bloody defence of others - his father, his country, his brothers, his nephews, but never for himself.
He was sick of it all. Yet there was no warrior in the whole of India, no King or Prince, who could challenge the Regent of Hastinapura.
Bhishma walked away, half-expecting Gandhari to stab him and was rather disappointed when she followed meekly. As they reached the verandah, a sudden blast of icy wind hit him and he shuddered. He turned back to see Gandhari looking at the broken toy in his hand. He felt embarrassed, wanting to throw it away or hide it from her gaze. Then he heard a sob. It did not come from the lovely woman before him, but from somewhere within the dark depths of the room where she had sat waiting for him. When Gandhari saw that he had heard the sob, a look of fear and pure hatred crossed her face. Bhishma moved quickly towards the room. Gandhari grabbed at his arm and clawed at his back, trying to stop him. Venting the pent-up anger and frustration of many years, he pushed her back in sudden fury and entered the room. Gandhari fell but was up and after him in a trice, trying to slow him down, scratching him with her long nails and biting - to no effect.
The sobs came from under the bed. The tall warrior bent down, his sword held before him to block an unexpected thrust from a sharp weapon that could slash his face. A small hand reached for the toy cart and then disappeared in a flash. But Bhishma caught the small hand and pulled hard. It was a little boy, barely five years old. Bhishma carried him into the light of the verandah to observe him. The boy was covered in blood but unhurt except for a wound on his left leg. His large, animal eyes looked at the tough warrior-prince with all the hatred he had gathered in his young life. It was at such moments that Bhishma hated himself. He could face a thousand arrows on the battlefield but the little boy's eyes pierced his armour and reached deep into his heart. His Gurus would have advised him not to spare the boy's life. When one conquered a country, it was prudent to finish off all the males and take the women. It prevented misadventures and future wars of revenge. Bhishma could almost hear his father's voice prompting him to thrust his sword through the tiny heart.
Slowly, very slowly, Bhishma put the boy down. He immediately collapsed onto the floor, unable to stand on his hurt leg. "Who is he?" Bhishma asked Gandhari.
"He is Shakuni, Prince of Gandhara. I know you will kill him. That is the dharma of the Kshatriya, is it not? I know all about the code of the warrior. But I beg you not to do it in front of me. He is my little brother...please have mercy..." Gandhari begged.
Bhishma stood up, embarrassed and unable to look at the haughty Princess in distress or the small boy who lay wheezing at his feet. His sword trembled in his hand. He slowly knelt and put down the toy cart near the boy, who grabbed at it, clutching it to his heart. Bhishma felt tears flood his eyes. He was irritated at himself for his weakness and pushed the boy away. Shakuni let out a howl of pain. "I will not kill him. I can see how much you love him. Take him with you to Hastinapura. He shall grow up there as a Prince of the Kurus," Bhishma said, hating himself every moment for giving in.
Gandhari let out a shuddering sigh, relieved at having the life of her young brother saved. Bhishma stood up and looked at them. The wind had become stronger and he shivered in the cold. Gandhari picked up the little boy in her arms, stumbling under his weight. Bhishma reached out and took Shakuni from her. As the Grand Regent lifted him, the boy spat into his face with all the hatred he could muster. Bhishma wiped the bloody saliva with the back of his hand and walked on, his face set like granite.
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They rode back to the dusty plains of the Ganges, to the palace in the eternal city of elephants, to the famed capital of India - Hastinapura. Shakuni lay limp across the saddle of the mighty warrior as the beautiful Princess of Gandhara galloped behind. Throughout the journey, Bhishma was preoccupied with thoughts of finding a bride for his other nephew, the albino Pandu. Experienced warrior that he was, he would not else have missed the hatred burning in the eyes of the little boy. It was the gravest mistake the Regent of the Kurus made in his long and illustrious life.
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1 PRINCE OF THE BLOOD
"I WILL FIND YOU SUYODHANA, and drag you out from whichever rat hole you are hiding in. You coward! Come out! I am not blind like your father. I will find and thrash you..." Bhima's booming voice echoed through the corridors of the Hastinapura palace.
The little boy cowered under the massive wooden bed, trembling with fear. The emptiness of the cavernous room oppressed him. Cloaked in the musty darkness under his father's bed, he hoped his tormentor would not find him. He could smell the lingering traces of the faint and musky odour which clung to his father, and wished he would return soon. For the last six months, every day had been like this - being chased by his cousin while he hid under the bed and waited with thumping heart for his enemy to lose interest in him and give up, while he cowered in fear. Though a year younger, Bhima stood a foot taller than the pale and wispy Suyodhana. Bhima took pleasure in being cruel to anyone he considered weak. He was something of a lout. What he lacked in brains he more than made up in sheer physical prowess.
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Suyodhana knew his fat cousin would be prowling the corridors of the palace looking for him as well as his brother. 'I hope he doesn't get hold of Sushasana,' he prayed. Sushasana was agile and could climb any tree. All the bulky fatso below could do then was throw stones at his agile cousin, who made faces at him. Bhima's aim was so poor that more than once he had broken a window and been reprimanded by their stern Granduncle, Bhishma. Knowing Suyodhana adored Sushala, his sister, Bhima also took great pleasure in making the little girl cry when her brothers were around. Invariably Suyodhana or Sushasana would get into a fight with their fat cousin over this. If none of the elders were around to stop it from becoming bloody, the squabble would develop into a brawl, with the other four brothers of the fat boy joining in.
But it was not Bhima whom Suyodhana hated the most. Of his five Pandava cousins, sons of his dead uncle, Pandu, he most feared Yudhishtra, the eldest. Had not his Uncle Shakuni warned him repeatedly about his pious cousin? While the young boy did not understand the inheritance and political issues Uncle Shakuni kept talking to him about, he hated the sheer hypocrisy of his eldest cousin, who was ten years old, almost the same age as he was. Yudhishtra behaved as if he was the most obedient, god-fearing and innocent boy in the world, but his kicks were often the most vicious in a fight. Suyodhana could understand Bhima's brutishness, but his eldest cousin's aggression confused him. In the presence of their elders, Yudhishtra was always sweet and loving towards his cousins, so his vile behaviour when they were alone baffled all the children.
Many a time, when Mother Kunti or Aunt Gandhari was present, Yudhishtra would affectionately kiss Suyodhana or Sushasana. Not that Gandhari could see. She had chosen to be blind like her husband and so bound her eyes. And that was another thing which confused little Suyodhana. Why would anyone refuse to look upon this beautiful world? Uncle Shakuni had once told him that she did it as a mark of protest against their Granduncle Bhishma, who had forced her to marry a blind man. But those words only served to confuse Suyodhana further. Did that mean his mother did not love his father, Dhritarashtra, the King? He had asked his mother once whether Uncle Shakuni was right; that she had chosen permanent darkness as a mark of protest. But she had just laughed and ruffled his hair affectionately. Gandhari had not answered him. But he had seen a damp patch form on the white silk cloth that covered her eyes. Had she been weeping?
How Suyodhana wished he had been born the child of common people. Uncle Sh
akuni had also told him that his paternal uncle, Vidhura, was the son of a palace maid and had been fathered by the same man who was the natural father of both King Dhritarashtra and his brother, Pandu.
"So what?" the little boy had asked puzzled. And Shakuni had answered that he would understand when he grew up. This had disappointed Suyodhana. 'When will I grow up?' he wondered wistfully. Perhaps he would then have enough strength to get even with his tormentor. For now, he was all alone, hiding in the shadows and praying that his large cousin would not find him.
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"I know you are hiding under your father's bed, you son of a blind fool. I'm coming to kick your thick head..."
'Oh Shiva! He has found me; he will get me now.' Suyodhana's heart thumped in his chest. Silhouetted against the fading light of the setting sun, Bhima's hulking frame cast a long shadow on the opposite wall. Suyodhana could only see his legs, but that was frightening enough. He wanted to cry out but knew nobody would come to his aid. He felt all alone in this cruel world, which was conspiring against him. Another shadow fell against the wall. Was it Bhima's younger brother Arjuna, coming to take part in the fun? Suyodhana crouched deeper into the darkness under the bed.
