AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (17 page)

A few feet away, Draupadi was urging Bhima to hit the tree harder. He should have allowed Bhima to see the Rakshasi woman and her son. Perhaps the next time he asked, he would let his brother go to see Khatotkacha. But Yudhishtra knew Bhima would never ask again. With a crash, the huge tree fell, frightening the night birds. Yudhishtra looked up from his disturbed meditations. Draupadi’s laughter filled the silence of the night and Yudhishtra felt a shiver of fear. ‘Duryodhana, may this exile never end. Then, perhaps, we may both escape facing the inevitable,’ Yudhishtra murmured softly. When he looked up, Guru Dhaumya was standing beside him, a deep frown on his face, his arms crossed over his chest. With head bent like a child caught stealing, Yudhishtra went into his hut without a word and closed the door.

But late into the night, Yudhishtra kept wondering about the strange resemblance between the Suta and his brother, Arjuna. When he remembered Karna, his jeering laugh in the Sabha echoed in his mind. The Suta was enjoying the royal life of Hastinapura with his friends while he, the son of
dharma,
the man who had followed every religious vow, performed every ritual without fail, respected Brahmins and cows, done all that was proper, and never uttered a lie, languished in the forest wearing a single cloth. Life had been unfair to him by showering blessings on the undeserving, like Karna. But he would not be bitter; he would accept his destiny. He would grow beyond hatred and find meaning in such ironies, the eldest Pandava vowed to himself. But, like an aftertaste of unpalatable medicine, Karna’s laughter when Draupadi had stood shamed, refused to leave him. How lucky men like Karna were! He struggled to concentrate his mind on meditation, but the Suta’s laughter continued to ring in his ears.

***

Which of those men was his father? From a distance Khatotkacha thought he recognised him. His mother had pointed out a giant of a man who stood at least a foot taller than the other Pandavas. As a child, he had fantasised about this moment, when his famous father would visit him in their tribal village, shower him with presents and embrace him. The adults treated him with respect, saying he was lucky to be the son of the famed Pandava, Bhima. But among the boys of his own age, he was the subject of ridicule. His small frame did not help and when one of the older boys had called him a bastard, he had fought him and lost. He had rushed to his mother with a bleeding nose and a black eye. Holding back his tears he had asked her what ‘bastard’ meant. His mother had cried for a long time that day but she had not told him what the word meant.

Later, when the last lamp in the village had gone out, and they were lying together in the courtyard, his mother had told him the story of his father and his uncle Hidumba, whom his father had slain. She told him of Bhima’s exploits and heroism, how he always defeated his evil cousin, Duryodhana. Little Khatotkacha’s heart filled with pride. If bastard meant being the son of such a great man, he could handle the taunts of his friends. He asked innocently when his father would come to see them and waited a long time for a reply, staring at the distant stars that blinked at him from afar. There was no answer that night, nor any night that followed. But in his dreams, his father took him upon his lap and played with him. That was enough.

“Shhh, Khatotkacha, you promised you would not make a sound,” Hidumbi said, tightening her grip on his little wrist.

“But he is my father. You said he would come to see me with lots of presents...” The boy pressed his lips together, excited and tense. His mother had warned him not to make a sound. They were perched on a little hillock and had been waiting since dawn. At last, he could see five men and a woman walking along the forest path. He tried to wriggle free from his mother’s grip but she held him firmly. When the strangers were about to vanish from view, he managed to escape and run towards them.

Hidumbi choked on a sob and called out, “Khatotkacha, wait!”

The boy crashed through the thick undergrowth, startling the tall man in the lead. Khatotkacha suddenly wished he was back with his mother, but his legs refused to move. His heart thudded against his ribs and his throat felt dry. One of the men had taken out his sword.

“Bhima, this urchin looks familiar,” the first man said to the giant behind him.

Khatotkacha’s shoulders relaxed. He was sure his father would come forward and lift him up. At that moment, his mother’s work-worn hands pressed against his shoulders. She was staring at his father. Why did he not even smile at her?

“Father...” Khatotkacha muttered. Bhima took a hesitant step forward.

“Rakshasas! Do not pollute yourself, Bhima,” Yudhishtra urged.

Bhima froze. Hidumbi’s grip tightened on Khatotkacha’s shoulder. He saw the pain in his father’s eyes as the woman with them said with a jeer, “Don’t touch them? How did Bhima father this boy? Another divine birth?”

Yudhishtra turned to Draupadi. “Do not concern yourself with them. The marriage was due to my mother’s misguided pity. Bhima killed Hidumba, this woman’s brother, so our mother made Bhima marry this Rakshasi. Today we are paying for that sin.”

Bhima stood with his gaze fixed on his giant toes.

Pointing at Khatotkacha, Draupadi asked, “Sin? This small boy is a sin to you?” Draupadi’s mirthless laugh echoed the bitterness in Hidumbi’s heart.

“Draupadi, when woman mocks, misfortune follows,” Yudhishtra said sternly.

Draupadi laughed again, startling the birds in the trees. “Of course, of course, it was my laughter that ruined us, Yudhishtra, not your gambling. We all know that.”

Khatotkacha saw the trace of a smile on the lips of the man standing near Bhima, but then Yudhishtra said to him, “Arjuna, let us not waste time in frivolous chatter. Ask this Rakshasi and her son to move out of our path so that we can proceed.”

Without a word Hidumbi moved to one side, dragging Khatotkacha with her. A teardrop fell on his head and he looked up. His mother was wiping her eyes. Was she crying because he had not behaved well? Should he have touched his father’s feet and asked for his blessing?

“Father!” Khatotkacha called out.

Bhima stopped. His companions turned to look. Khatotkacha gulped in embarrassment. His father was staring at him. He tried to keep his chin from trembling. “Father, I heard that Prince Duryodhana cheated you of your palace. When you fight that evil man, call me, I will come to help you.”

“Now that was the only insult left – street urchins and untouchables offering to help the Pandavas,” Arjuna said. The others laughed at the irony. Even Bhima laughed.

That hurt Khatotkacha the most. His mother dragged him away. He was so small, with such puny little hands and dark skin. Which father would not be ashamed of such a son? Perhaps a bastard was someone whose father was ashamed to admit you were his son. Khatotkacha silently vowed to become a great warrior one day. He would never let down his tall, handsome father. He wanted to scream his determination to Bhima’s retreating form. He burrowed his heels into the earth to make his mother stop and turned to look at his father one last time. The sun leaked through the jungle canopy and leaves rustled in the breeze. His father and uncles had vanished, but their laughter lingered in the air.

*****

16
   
L
ESSER
M
EN

VIDHURA HAD BEEN STANDING
without saying a word. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, desperately wishing he could sit down. Today he was feeling his years. Bhishma had not spoken since evening. He kept staring through the window, his hands clasped behind him, deep in thought. Outside, the city of Hastinapura was decorated with oil lamps and colourful festoons. The mood inside the chamber of the Grand Regent was more suited to a funeral than a festival. Outside, drums beat in a frenzied rhythm. The clopping of horseshoes, the clanging of bells and the waxing and waning of thousands of cheering voices could be heard, sometimes clearly, sometimes from a distance. A reluctant breeze entered, making the lone torch in the chamber flicker, and played gently with the long flowing beard of the Grand Regent. The beard was now completely white. They were both ageing. Vidhura sighed at the thought.

“How did the Suta achieve it, Vidhura?” Bhishma finally asked.

Vidhura wished he had not heard the hint of jealousy. He had no answer. He focused his eyes on the pool of darkness in the corner of the room. He could not look at the pain in Bhishma’s eyes. Applause sounded outside and the beating of drums grew louder. The Suta’s victory procession had entered the fort. Karna, the son of a charioteer, had achieved what generations of Kuru princes could not. He had defeated the powerful Southern Confederate and was returning with immeasurable wealth from the South. The cheers of ‘Dhanaveera’, ‘Dharmaveera’, and ‘Digvijayi Karna’, echoed around the fort, making the silence in the chamber unbearable to the two men.

“I never imagined the South could be conquered, and that too, by a mere Suta.” Bhishma gripped the bars of the window. “I think there is more here than the eye can see. Do you think Parashurama would have bestowed his
bhargava astra
on this Suta without thinking? The Suta must have used deceit. I cannot believe he would otherwise have subdued the South so easily. The most I could gain was a worthless truce.”

Vidhura did not reply. Bhishma began pacing up and down. Vidhura focussed on the Regent’s shadow, which grew into a giant one moment and then turned into a dwarf the next, when he turned.

“There could be a trap, Vidhura. The fool Suyodhana thinks the South is an ally. They are the people who never forget a slight. And a mere Suta has conquered them. All the loot the Suta has brought with him is going to be of no use to us. The South will turn against us when it would matter most, I am sure of it.”

Outside, the cheering rose to a crescendo and Bhishma paused to listen. “I must warn Suyodhana. It will be difficult for me to face that Suta. I never expected to see him again. But I must swallow my pride, must I not, Vidhura? Nobody will say the son of Ganga did not respect a great warrior. Yes, that boy is good, too good for his own well-being. Karna! What a son you fathered, Athiratha.”

Vidhura sneaked a glance at the Grand Regent and saw a small smile lift his lips. He relaxed.

“How did he win when I could not?” Bhishma asked again. “To face everyone after what I said to that Suta will be difficult, Vidhura, but I must. I have never run from a battlefield and I will not run from embarrassment.” Suddenly, Bhishma put his hand on his Prime Minister’s shoulders and said, “If I falter in my courtesies to the Suta, Vidhura, stand beside me and remind me of my duty.”

Vidhura turned away, unable to look at those greying eyes. His heart felt as heavy as a stone. At that moment Vidhura hated the Suta and his victory more than anything in life.

Bhishma went to his chair, sat down, and gestured to Vidhura to sit near him. Relieved, Vidhura eased himself onto the chair. Bhishma began going through the pile of palm leaves on the table but it was evident his mind was not on the task. The victory procession had moved into the palace and the faint sounds of cheering and clapping floated into the Grand Regent’s chamber. Each time they heard footsteps outside, the men looked at each other and then at the door, expectantly. After what seemed like an unendurably long wait, they heard a knock.

Bhishma sat back in his chair, the expression on his rugged face was stern and cold. “It must be Suyodhana and his friends come to tell us of the victory.”

Vidhura walked to the door. It opened to admit a servant, who bowed deeply and placed a silver tray with a glass of milk and a bowl of dried fruit and nuts on the table and then left without a word. The two most important men in the empire looked at each other silently.

Bhishma beckoned to Vidhura and they began poring over the various administrative matters of State. Time dragged by. The party ended in the palace but no invitation came for the Grand Regent. Finally, when the sky had grown grey in the east, Bhishma stood up wearily.

Vidhura did not look up. He knew what was coming. When the Royal Insignia of the Kuru empire was gently placed before him, the Prime Minister turned away, tears in his eyes. “No Swami, no. Do not do this...”

“Vidhura, my time has ended. Prince Suyodhana is being kind. Remember my words, Vidhura? I said I would hand over the reins of empire to him if the Suta came back alive. Well, he has not only come back alive, but victorious. Hastinapura no longer needs the services of this old man. The Prince has subtly reminded me of my own insignificance.”

“No, Swami, no.” Vidhura stood up angrily. “I will talk sense into that young fool. He cannot treat you like this. I will not allow anyone to treat you like this.”

“Vidhura, no man is indispensable – neither you, nor me. If someone thinks otherwise, he is a fool. The world existed before us, and will do so after we are gone. My time has ended, that is all. I am no longer young. I have borne the burden of ruling this country for a very long time. For the last three generations, I have nurtured this kingdom, without in-fighting, palace feuds or coups. Before me, the corridors of power were paved with the flesh of kin fighting kin for the throne. The flowers in the garden drank more blood than water. For three generations, I have preserved this land. Now the Princes have grown up. My duty is done. The time has come for this old man to rest.”