AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (39 page)

Lakshmana Kumara’s perplexed face rose before Balarama’s eyes. Would he ever be able to forgive himself and find peace? He began walking, ignoring the bowing guards and looking straight ahead. He was no longer their King. The two women hurried to keep up.

People on the street paused to watch the curious sight. Then a man joined them, and then a woman. One became two, two became ten and ten became a hundred. Soon, thousands were following the old man and the two young girls, without asking any questions.

A few days later, an untouchable and his blind dog joined the strange procession. Ironically, the songs he sang were about Krishna’s love. The crowd sang with him as Balarama walked through the miserable villages of his country, carrying his yoke on his shoulder. The motley crowd stopped at hamlets to serve those forgotten by their rulers and forsaken by God. The Song of Man was composed without words.

Near the banks of the Yamuna, they encountered a group led by Carvaka. The atheist Guru laughed when he saw Balarama. “Where are you going to, Sir?” he asked, gazing at Balarama’s entourage.

“In search of God, Carvaka. Perhaps I have found him in you? And where may you be going?” the saint asked the atheist.

“I am searching for Man, Balarama. I think I have found him in you.”

The atheist and the saint laughed aloud. The crowd around them joined in the laughter without comprehending a word either had spoken.

“That is a dangerous thing to do, Carvaka, searching for Man in a holy crowd could get you killed,” Balarama said, chuckling.

“But you are walking an even more dangerous path, Balarama, if you have begun to see God in an atheist.”

Balarama put his arms round the shoulders of his daughter and niece. “Carvaka, I have no great philosophy to offer except that of love. I know no
mantras
except that of peace. I am not an
avatar,
but an old man in a
dhoti
; an insignificant man in a land of dazzling Gods. But I will not give up. I will return in every age to walk with my children. I do not seek
moksha
from that. I have only one simple wish – to return to my country whenever she needs me.”

“Balarama, they will come after you. Their intellects may be blunt but their arrows are sharp.”

“I will suffer happily for my children, but I will not give up till I teach them the
dharma
of
ahimsa
and love.”

The saint and the atheist, seekers both, bowed to each other and went their separate ways.

*****

48
   
T
HE
G
REAT
S
ECRET

“SOME OTHER DAY, JARA,”
Vidhura said, trying to walk away.

But the beggar blocked his path and pleaded with folded hands, “Please, Swami. Devi Kunti is sick with worry.”

Vidhura had been quietly ignoring Kunti’s requests to visit her. He could not think of a way to avoid the visit now. Swallowing hard, he turned back and started walking towards the street where he had once lived. Everything looked familiar, yet strange. There were a few new houses and the tree at the corner had grown corpulent with age. Some of the houses needed a new coat of lime and a few street lamps leaned at precarious angles. The smell of garbage permeated the air and a cat peered out of an overflowing dustbin. Nothing much had changed, yet everything had.

“Ma,” Jara called.

The door creaked open and Vidhura gasped as he looked at Kunti. She had aged beyond his wildest imagination. The once beautiful face was now a web of wrinkles, the long and glossy black hair, silver. He hoped the meeting would soon be over and he could leave.

“Vidhura, how old you have grown!” Kunti exclaimed, drawing an answering smile from Vidhura.

Vidhura touched his balding pate and said with a courtier’s grace, “Time has not been kind, Devi, yet you look untouched by its hands.”

“Still the same sweet talker, Vidhura. Come in. I have been desperately trying to reach you for quite some time.”

Jara walked away. The dog sniffed at Vidhura’s hands and then trotted off behind its master. Vidhura stepped out to the veranda and sat down. His son had once fallen here and they had rushed him to the palace Vaidya late in the evening. For two days the boy had cried in pain...

“There is going to be a war.”

Kunti’s words brought Vidhura back to the present. “Not if I can do something about it,” he replied.

“You should visit me sometimes. No one comes here except Krishna.” Kunti dabbed her eyes with the end of her sari.

Vidhura looked at the floor, not wanting to face her. “Devi, things have not been good for me, either,” he finally said.

“I called you here for a particular reason. There was a time when I wanted my children to outdo Gandhari’s sons in everything. I was afraid to become the poor relation living on their charity. But when I look back now, it all seems so meaningless.”

“Devi, the rivalry between the cousins is deep, yet, if you wish, the war can still be avoided.”

“I want my son to be King after Dhritarashtra,” Kunti said, looking towards the hills in the distance.

“Gandhari wants Suyodhana to be King and you want Yudhishtra.” Vidhura sighed. He was wasting his time here.

“I do not speak of Yudhishtra.” Kunti turned away from Vidhura and pulled her
pallu
over her head. Her face was in shadow but Vidhura saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“I don’t understand.” For some reason, his heart began pounding in his chest. Perhaps it was the way she had spoken.

“I speak of Karna.”

Had he heard correctly? Vidhura’s heart began beating like a frenzied drum. “What has that Sutaputra to do with it?” Vidhura asked, looking at his sister-in-law in astonishment.

“He is not a Sutaputra.”

Vidhura remained silent, waiting for Kunti to say something more.

“Karna is my son,” Kunti said on a sob. Her unshed tears threatened to choke her.

Vidhura stood up, holding on to the bamboo pole near him. The world had turned upside down. The man who had been ridiculed for his caste by everyone was Kunti’s firstborn son?

“But how?” The news was as incredible as it was shocking.

“I had him before my marriage to Pandu. He is my illegitimate son. It would have created a huge scandal for the Princess to have a son before marriage. I was just sixteen. So I gave him to Mother Ganga, in a reed basket, leaving him to live or die. Every day I have prayed for him, his health and happiness.”

“Devi, how could you have been so cruel, to him and to yourself?”

“Vidhura, I have borne the pain and guilt every living moment since that day. I saw him when he came to challenge Arjuna on the day of the Princes’ graduation. I watched him being humiliated by one and all. Only Duryodhana stood by my son. Now my sons will fight each other and I am afraid.”

Vidhura knew not how to respond. He felt both revulsion and pity for the old woman before him. The reasons and justifications could be many but Karna was the real victim in this drama. “Why did you choose to tell me this now?” he finally asked in a low voice.

“I know what you must think of me, yet even now I do not have the courage to tell the world that Karna is my son.”

Vidhura waited but Kunti turned away. He wondered if she realized that her secret would drag the whole country into a bloody war. Thousands would die and be left destitute. He wanted to shout at her but when he looked into Kunti’s face, he could not bring himself to do it. He would have to find another way.

“Devi, I will tell Lord Bhishma. He will find a way. Perhaps this is our last chance to prevent the war.”

Kunti sat with a faraway look in her eyes. Vidhura bowed and took his leave. The future looked frightening. It was going to be a major war and both sides would do anything to win. Vidhura walked the familiar road to the palace. He had to meet the forgotten old man and tell him about Karna. It was his country’s last hope.

***

The wheel of
karma
was turning. Suyodhana had been struck with many tragedies but the best time to strike was when the enemy was down. The Southern Confederate had declared its independence from Hastinapura. Parashurama braced for Karna’s army to descend upon them. When nothing happened, he grew bolder. The Guru restored
dharma
by reversing Suyodhana’s reforms. Though Parashurama longed to be at Kurukshetra, he knew his fighting days were over. He would control his puppets from behind the scenes.

“What is Takshaka’s new city called?” Parashurama asked Uthayan.

“Nagapura, the City of Nagas. Takshaka has reversed the caste rules and everyone except Nagas are considered untouchables.”

“The rise of
Kali
is imminent.” Parashurama spat out red
paan
juice. “Nagapura sits at the centre of Bharatavarsha – an ideal place to instil the laws of
dharma.”

“Guru, the Nagas have forgotten the lessons of Indraprastha but we will remind them. Do we move to Kurukshetra after that?”

“Kurukshetra! It will be the mother of all wars. Are the Kings of the Confederate ready to fight evil?”

“Not Kalinga, Guru. The traitor supports the Suta, saying he has been chosen by the Sun God.”

“But Krishna is siding with the Pandavas. Evil will be vanquished.”

***

The Confederate army marched towards Kurukshetra, ravaging everything in its path. They captured Nagapura and butchered thousands of Nagas. Takshaka was on the run again. Parashurama felt smug. From the city of the Nagas, he would decide the present and future of Bharatavarsha.

Uthayan travelled further north and led the Kings of the Southern Confederate to the Pandava camp. He bent to touch Krishna and Dhaumya’s feet and then bowed to Yudhishtra. “We have come from the distant South to help the cause of
dharma.”

“Ah, we were expecting you,” Dhaumya said smoothly. “We would like the Confederate army to arrange for all the food and weapons for the Pandava side.”

“But we came to fight Duryodhana,” Uthayan protested. He was confused, this was not the treatment he had expected. It was almost insulting. Battles had been fought in the South for far more trivial reasons.

“It is a critical job, King Uthayan. Only you can do it. The country is reeling from drought and there is barely anything for the people to eat, let alone horses and elephants. It needs great administrative talent and your people are famous for that.” Dhaumya smiled.

Perhaps what the good priest said was important. Uthayan turned to his soldiers. “Scrounge in every home and force open every granary. There is no time to waste. We must consolidate our supplies before the enemy grabs it.” Uthayan began barking orders to his men. In an exemplary display of Southern discipline, the Confederate army spread into the countryside to forage, pilfer and loot.

“Why did you do that, Guru?” Arjuna asked. He felt offended by the lack of respect shown to another warrior.

But Dhaumya merely smiled. “They are not pure Kshatriyas. They have Asura blood. This is not only about winning the war but also who wins it.” He let his words sink into the minds of the Pandavas. The last thing he wanted was Uthayan or any Asura King winning the war for them. It would be best to keep such glory and achievements to the fringes. The carefully built theory of caste purity would collapse if Uthayan turned out to be as skilled as Arjuna. That would make the war meaningless. In matters of
dharma,
it was not worth taking such risks.

Dhaumya noticed a dark-skinned young man standing alone at the edges of the forest. He looked like a Naga. But what was a Naga doing at the Pandava camp? As the Guru watched with growing anger, the young man bowed low. He had to find out who the youngster was. The face looked oddly familiar. Suddenly, Dhaumya stopped. The Naga resembled Arjuna! If he was right, then he would have even more work to do to save
dharma,
the Guru thought.

*****

49
   
W
AR
G
AMES