AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (16 page)

Ekalavya had not given up when life cheated him at birth or when his Guru tried to end his dreams. He would not give up now. The Nishada battled on. ‘I cannot die now, I refuse to die now! It needs greater forces than this to stop me,’ Ekalavya screamed. The sea roared in laughter, foaming and frothing, pounding and dragging, but the Nishada held on to life. For another hour, the son of the forest and the sea played a deadly game, testing the Nishada’s will to survive. Finally, the sea gave up with a hiss, the sky stopped pelting rain, leaving a few streaks of lightning to die flashy deaths behind the breaking clouds.

Ekalavya floated on his back for a while. Where had his boat gone? He knew he could not float like this forever, but he did not have the courage to look around. A lone star appeared in the sky, vanished behind a dark cloud, and then returned. ‘You and I are alone in this black world,’ Ekalavya thought as the star twinkled above him. Determination seeped back into his battered body and he turned, scanning the horizon for his boat. There was no sign of it anywhere. When he had almost given up, brilliant lightning lit up the sky and he saw something far away. Was it the boat? If it turned out to be something else, the sea would win. He began to swim towards the smudge on the horizon, ignoring the pain in his limbs.

It was his boat. It took him the better part of an hour to reach it and climb in. He collapsed into it, unmindful of the water bobbing inside. He did not know how he had survived thus far, nor did he know whether he would survive hereafter. It had been perilous to jump from the ramparts of the fort. Why had Balarama not shot him down when he had the chance, Ekalavya wondered. For a fraction of a second, his gaze had locked with that of Balarama. Ekalavya had stood poised to jump. Balarama had raised his bow, aiming at him. Then the Yadava leader had looked away and his bow had dropped to the floor of his chariot. At the time Ekalavya had felt only relief as he jumped into the raging sea, preferring to take his chance with the elements rather than with men. Later, he realised bitterly that he owed his life to the very man he had planned to assassinate. Having jumped into the crashing sea, Ekalavya had hidden in a half-submerged cave as the Yadava soldiers searched for him. Late that night he had pushed a small fishing boat into the water and paddled away without direction.

Now, after his tortuous battle with the sea, as he lay limp in the rickety boat, the Nishada thanked the Gods for saving his life. But gradually, like the first mists of winter creeping over the rushes, bitterness shrouded his mind. His indebtedness to Balarama sat like a stone in his heart. Ekalavya stood up, rocking the boat. He had to find a way to reach land and resume battle. Where had the paddle gone? He searched desperately, knowing that the sea had snatched it away. The boat drifted on. Helpless, he felt powerless to control his life and destiny. He tried to stay awake, recalling the anger he felt towards Krishna, the Pandavas, and all those self-righteous men who treated his people like dirt; but nothing could stop the cold feel of death creeping up from the dirty water at his feet. The boat drifted where it pleased. By the next day, sleep had overcome the Nishada.

When he woke, his mouth was gagged and he was bound in chains.

*****

15
   
S
ON
OF
A
R
AKSHASI

“I DO NOT UNDERSTAND, DHARMAPUTRA.
Why do you refuse to fight?”

Yudhishtra heard the impatience in Dhaumya’s voice. He could almost feel Draupadi’s mocking smile behind him. Why did she always judge him so harshly? Why did this Brahmin not leave him alone?

“I am a fool. I have gambled away everything. Perhaps I deserved it. Let Duryodhana rule. He deserves the crown. What are we after all?”

“Arjuna, speak to your brother.” Dhaumya’s face turned red with anger. A chattering squirrel ran among the trees, as if mocking them.

“I have nothing to say,” Arjuna said and continued to polish his bow.

“It is such a long period of exile and you can argue there are special circumstances. Yudhishtra, your mother is suffering. She now lives in a Shudra’s house.”

“That is her fate. This is mine,” Yudhishtra said quietly. He knew what would come next.

Draupadi gave a mocking laugh. “Fate! Fate indeed!”

“Draupadi, is it necessary for you to torture me like this every moment? Yes, I made a mistake...”

“I was stripped in public by that evil Duryodhana.”

“Draupadi, enough!”

“Enough? You did not even raise a little finger, my brave and truthful husband.”

“It was not
dharma.
I had already lost, you were Duryodhana’s slave. I had no voice.”

“It is better we stop talking of this, brother,” Arjuna interjected before Draupadi could retort.

“So, you will not fight? Is that your final decision?” Dhaumya asked with barely concealed anger.

Yudhishtra looked around. His brothers were looking at him curiously. He could order them to fight but he was not sure how much support he would get. There was no denying he wished to rule, but something kept nagging at him. The look of that beggar when he had picked up a handful of dust troubled him. Was a handful of earth worth fighting a war over? Was the throne worth it? Until that fateful game of dice, his political moves had been dictated by his Guru and his mother; it had been a game. But power was a great addiction. Now, having spent barely a few months on the road, he was seeing life in a completely different light. Nothing made sense. All that grand talk about
dharma,
all the speculation about soul,
karma,
hell, heaven, and rebirth – it all sounded hollow.

Even glorious Indraprastha, which he had surrendered to Duryodhana in the game of dice, had lost its appeal. He had met a few Naga women who had toiled to build the palace and then been banished from the city. Yet they had come to his aid when he and his brothers entered the forest, bringing fruit for the Pandavas to eat, always standing at a respectful distance. He had given them no space in his city, yet they shared what they had with him. It was all very confusing.

‘War! Whom should I fight against?’ he wondered. It had always been Arjuna who had the doubts, who questioned everything. He had always been so sure of his own divine right to rule, what
dharma
was. Now the roles had been reversed. His brothers thirsted for revenge against Duryodhana. They felt their honour could only be restored by killing Duryodhana and his friends, who had insulted their wife and made them beggars. As Guru Dhaumya said, he should lead the fighting, yet...

“I will not go back on my word. We will suffer the exile. After the stipulated period, if we still feel the same way, we will fight. Until then, let the son of the King rule,” Yudhishtra said, gazing into the distance.

He heard a crash behind him and turned back. Bhima was hitting a tree with his huge mace, his face grim, his muscles taut. Arjuna sat beside Draupadi, consoling her. It distressed him to see their strong-minded wife weeping. It was more painful than her spirited rebellion and mocking words. The twins had wandered away and Dhaumya followed them. Yudhishtra knew the Guru would try to persuade him again later. The Guru would say all the right things, such as taking revenge against Duryodhana for disrobing Draupadi. He would try to incite their anger. Why did he not feel any rage? As a man wronged, anger should have festered within him like a sore; every living moment he should have felt burning pain, yet all he felt was numbness. ‘Is it because there is very little Kshatriya blood in me?’ he wondered. Who had been his father? How much credence could be given to his mother’s stories about his divine birth as a gift from the God of Death? Yama? Did such a God even exist? Yama was nothing but time,
kala,
dark time. ‘Am I then the son of Time?’ Yudhishtra wanted to laugh. Perhaps this exile was a catharsis, a journey of self-discovery in search of the real meaning of
dharma.
Not the
dharma
spoken of by Dhaumya or even the silver-tongued Krishna.

Yudhishtra’s thoughts were interrupted by Bhima. His huge brother stood reverently before him. “Brother, I wish to see my son. I saw him and his mother from a distance today. The forest dwellers say Hidumbi and my little one live in this forest.”

Yudhishtra stared at Bhima without comprehending what he was saying. Son? Which son? Then he remembered – the son of that untouchable Rakshasi, the Asura woman, Hidumbi. He did not know what to say.

“Yudhishtra, that son was a youthful mistake by your brother. I have been trying to make Bhima see reason, but nothing seems to change his mind. It is accepted that Kshatriyas seek honey in different flowers, like a bee, but the fruit belongs to the plant, not the bee.” Dhaumya rushed to speak, afraid Yudhishtra would weaken and forget his
dharma.

“Brother, I saw my son today. Just once, I want to hold his hand. He refuses to leave my mind.” Bhima pleaded.

Yudhishtra looked at Dhaumya. A few days before, he would have categorically refused such a request. How could his brother associate with untouchables? Kshatriya boys were permitted such exploits, though he had never indulged in them. However, looking into Bhima’s eyes, he could not bring himself to deny his brother. He looked at Dhaumya for a way out.

“Bhima, they are untouchables, Rakshasas,” Dhaumya said, shaking his head vigorously.

“Hidumbi is my wife and Khatotkacha is my son,” Bhima stated flatly, almost choking in his effort to speak.

Yudhishtra was surprised by Bhima’s sudden display of emotion. He had rarely seen his brother with anything but a scowl on his face and had often wondered whether he felt any emotion other than anger. Life in the forest was changing them all. He was about to give his permission when Yudhishtra caught Dhaumya’s eye. He had angered his Guru enough for one day.

“Bhima, my brother, it is not good to have attachment towards anything in life. Attachment leads to grief. Bhima, stop!” Yudhishtra watched Bhima walking away without waiting to hear more. Bhima picked up his mace again and began raining violent blows on a tree. He saw Draupadi move towards Bhima and felt a pang of jealousy. He was aware of Dhaumya’s eyes watching him and he hoped his emotions were not reflected on his face. He could hear Draupadi’s voice clearly, telling Bhima more loudly than necessary, to imagine that the tree was Duryodhana. The tree shook in rhythm to the thudding of Bhima’s mace, shedding leaves and splintering inch by inch in groaning protest. The violence in the air was frightening and Yudhishtra shuddered when he heard his Guru laughing.

Dhaumya turned to Yudhishtra and said, “Prince, do not let the anger die. That evil son of the King has to be killed one day. He and his friends are destroying our
dharma.”

“Let my brother Bhima take care of Duryodhana,” Arjuna said as he whisked his bow from his shoulder and in one fluid movement, shot an arrow at a distant tree. Another arrow followed, piercing the first with unnerving accuracy. A third followed and split the second. Then Arjuna turned to his brother. “It is not Duryodhana’s head I yearn for. When all is said and done, he is of our blood, our cousin. What I cannot stand is the arrogance of that low caste Suta. One day, my arrow will pierce Karna’s heart.”

Guru Dhaumya retired to his hut with a smile. He was leaving the next morning but had promised to return with Krishna. Yudhishtra was sure that even Krishna could not persuade him to break his resolve to not fight till their term of exile was finished. The sun was sinking behind the trees and the forest was alive with the chatter of monkeys and birds.

As Yudhishtra stood watching him aim arrow after arrow in anger, an uncomfortable thought entered his mind. Perhaps it was the angle of the setting sun or perhaps it was just a delusion induced by hunger.

Arjuna looked at Yudhishtra and smiled. “Why are you staring like that, brother?” Arjuna shot another arrow. There was that thought again! Arjuna turned and chuckled. “Brother, your expression resembles our evil cousin, Duryodhana.”

Yudhishtra looked at Arjuna in silence and then sauntered back to his hut. It was time for his evening ablutions. He had been shocked by Arjuna’s words. Expressions mirrored the thoughts of the mind. He had often laughed at the confused face Duryodhana sometimes had. Then he had been sure about right and wrong and had mocked his cousin for not knowing what
dharma
was. Now he was not sure who was right and who was wrong. He should have felt the same anger Arjuna or Bhima felt for the wrongs done to them. That he did not, surprised and confused him. He needed to ponder over it.

As Yudhishtra washed his feet before entering his hut, he looked back at Arjuna once more. In a flash, the same thought that had flashed through his mind earlier, returned with blinding force. His brother resembled that low-caste impostor, Karna! How could a Prince of the Kuru dynasty resemble a Suta? In the final reckoning, was there no difference between him and Duryodhana, or Arjuna and Karna? Night had descended from the heavens and the forest was silent except for the sound of crickets. Yudhishtra placed a reed mat on the mud veranda and sat down to meditate. But his mind refused to be tamed. Right, wrong,
dharma, adharma,
duty, devotion, evil, good, princes, beggars, Nagas, Krishna, everything jumbled together in a confused melee.