Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (29 page)

Sleep evades Arjuna. He says he cannot forget Karna’s face as the final arrow flew at him while he struggled with the chariot wheel.

Yudhistira too is kept awake by thoughts of Karna. He has not spoken to Mother since she revealed the truth.

The anguish on my brother’s face when Mother asked him to perform the last rites for the man we had ridiculed as the charioteer’s son…

The memory that suffocates me most is of the swirling smoke I saw from the river steps. I had mistaken it for fire from the crematorium.

Lost in my own mind, I had watched without stirring as the last of our sons were put to death.

Mother has not accompanied us to the palace. She would stay at Uncle Vidura’s house, she said—as she had for the past thirteen years.

Yudhistira seeks me out several days later. He is still bitter.

‘That woman!’ he says. ‘One word from her would have saved us all these sins! May her lot never guard their thoughts thus!’

His anger unspent, Yudhistira walks away, still muttering to himself.

Knowing what I know of her life, I cannot bring myself to hate Mother. She has seen more than her fair share of misery.

Though born to Shoorasena of Mathura, she was loaned to King Kuntibhoja, who did not have children.

Her foster father had loaned her again. As a maid to the sage Durvasa.

Escaping that servitude years later, she had come to Hastinapur as wife to King Pandu. But our father married again soon.

Beautiful, young Madri. Father could not have been more smitten. When he still could not produce heirs, he abdicated. Mother had to follow.

She bore three children later. Sons by niyoga. Impregnated by other men on the command of her husband, for the good of the clan.

Then widowhood. Return to Hastinapur. Treachery. Life in Uncle Vidura’s house for thirteen long years, while her sons wandered the forests.

No, Mother has not had an easy life.

But she who lost so much, suffered such heartache, why did she fan our revenge knowing what she knew?

Mother, who has been intuitive and foresaw danger before it arrived, did she not realize her truth had the power to change everything?

I think of the message she sent to Virata’s palace when Yudhistira was uncertain. Would we have gone to war but for her words?

Yes, Mother has done much to precipitate this war, to install us as the unchallenged rulers of the kingdom her husband abdicated.

In all that, we lost much. Our youth, our sons, our brother, even our own identity.

The balladeers sing of me as the son of Vaayu, the God of Wind. Who am I really? Who is Yudhistira? Arjuna?

Sighing, I walk through the dank corridors into the courtyard. I stop when I reach Duryodhana’s palace. No retainers guard the entrance.

I see the statue Shukacharya had told me about. The one Duryodhana used to duel with. Huge arms, big belly, an idiot’s smile on its face.

Dritarashtra had tried to destroy it when he came to know of Duryodhana’s death. But it looks like my statue too survived the blind man.

I cannot resist walking in to take a look at the leisure hall. The venue of the dice game.

Dritarashtra is sitting alone when I enter. He looks up, hearing me. ‘Who is there?’

‘Bhimasena.’

He falls silent. Uncomfortable with my presence, he shuffles his feet.

More than Mother, more than my elder brother, more than fate itself, it is this man who is responsible for everything.

He had sat here, in this very room, when Duryodhana cheated us out of our inheritance. He had not lifted a finger to stop his sons.

I watch without pity as he draws himself up painfully. Someone moves to his side. I had not seen Aunt Gandhari in the shadows.

She turns when they reach the door. ‘No one can blame you for killing on the battlefield. But did you have to drink your cousin’s blood?’

‘Dushasana’s blood splashed on my face and wet my lips,’ I say, truthfully. ‘That was all. I did not drink it.’

Aunt Gandhari looks at me from behind the blindfold. She nods as if accepting my explanation. Then, in a gentler tone, she says:

‘We know you grieve for Ghatotkacha. Know also that we grieve for ours a hundred times more.’

Holding the old man’s arm, she says, ‘Be at peace, son. May this palace bring you more happiness than it has brought us.’

I stand there for a long time after she leaves. Peace! Perhaps time will heal the wounds, but this palace will never bring me peace.

I remember the first time I set foot here. As a child, behind Mother and Yudhistira. Aunt Gandhari had welcomed us then.

But I have never been at peace here. Never felt I belonged. Now, even less so.

No, I will only drown in this palace of tears. I have fulfilled my duty to my brothers, to Hastinapur.

Suddenly, knowing what I must do, I walk out into the courtyard.

I find Visoka by the stable, engaged in idle conversation with a helper. Seeing me, he gets up quickly.

‘Prepare the small chariot,’ I say. ‘I must leave.’

I am waiting when Visoka arrives to collect me. We drive out slowly through the palace gates.

Visoka begins to turn on to the road that takes us out of the city. I stop him.

‘To Uncle Vidura’s first,’ I say.

Mother is in the backyard, gathering firewood. She sets down the bundle in her hand when she sees me. She looks at the waiting chariot.

‘You are leaving.’

I nod. Mother makes the sign of benediction with her hand. ‘Tell Hidimbi I asked about her. Give her my blessing.’

Then she asks, ‘What did Yudhistira say?’

‘I did not tell him.’

Mother looks at me fixedly. ‘But you came to me.’

I stand facing her. My words, when they emerge from my throat, choke me.

‘All our lives we laughed at our brother, ridiculing him as the charioteer’s son. Who are we really? I must know. Who is my father?’

Mother hesitates. Then she says slowly:

‘Karna was born before Hastinapur. When I lived with the sage. A difficult man, he burnt like the sun at the slightest lapse.

‘Karna took after him—resplendent, but difficult to love.’

‘And I?’ I ask. ‘Who am I?’

Mother looks at me wearily. When I wait determinedly, she sighs, composes herself.

‘My husband Pandu wanted a son who would be a great king. Who would be intelligent, know the Vedas and be well versed in statecraft.

‘I accepted Vidura for that purpose. Yudhistira is his son.

‘Then King Pandu wanted a strong son. Someone to protect the kingdom. Someone powerful like Vaayu, the God of Wind.

‘I prayed for a man who could sire me such a son.’

Mother’s face is crimson. With shame or anger, I cannot tell.

‘There was someone. A giant, blessed with the strength of a thousand elephants. He was reluctant. But he could not refuse me.’

When realization dawns on me, I stagger back.

Is Mother telling me the blind man who I could not bear to see, the one responsible for everything, is my real father?

Mother drops her gaze.

The man she next approached was a master of warfare. One said to have learnt from Lord Parashuram himself.

‘Drona. Arjuna was not just his favourite disciple.’

Mother’s lips are still moving. But I cannot hear anymore.

After a long time, I ask, ‘About me… did Duryodhana know?’

‘Perhaps. In his heart.’

Mother continues, ‘They laughed at you. Called you the fool, the idiot. But it was you Dritarashtra feared the most.

‘Not because of your strength. But because you were the bind. The one force that holds your brothers together.

‘Without you, there are no Pandavas. Dritarashtra saw that. I see that.’

Mother reaches up to touch my face. She says softly, ‘Now you know the truth. Go, if you must.’

Picking up her bundle, she walks away, leaving me alone with the demons she has unleashed in my mind.

Darkness is spreading when I stir again. A strong wind rustles the treetops and lashes at me, forcing me to step back.

I walk to the chariot with bowed head. When I climb in, Visoka asks, ‘Where to?’

‘To the palace,’ I say.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My deepest gratitude to:

M.T. Vasudevan Nair, for the twin inspirations of
Randamoozham
and
Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha
, which showed me how stories can be (re)told.

The faithfuls of @epicretold, who would not let me stop: @dayitakurien, @anilalur, @ngkabra, @therestlessquill @krisudayasankar, @jakradum

@balakrishnarao, @caricreature2, @sai_swaroopa, @talking_climate, @ intelshwets, @NarasMG, @SukanyaVerma, @aparnamuk, @natashabadhwar

Bronwen Thomas, for this ‘new’ media idea that has now returned to the ‘old’ media.

Prem Panicker, for
Bhimsen
, and for talking me out of writing ruts.

My agent Mita Kapur, the gentle bulldozer who coaxed this book out of me, tweet by tweet.

My editor Manasi Subramaniam, who worked long and hard to discipline my unschooled writing.

My aunt Bisy Untan, who blue-pencilled my childhood scribbling and taught me the value of paragraphs a long while ago.

And my wife Svetlana Urupina and my friend Nina Subramani, for being the perfect test readers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Saeed Rashid

Chindu Sreedharan is an accidental academic, a journalist who strayed into academia and stayed. He worked for
The Sunday Observer,
Rediff.com
and
India Abroad
before moving to the UK in 2003. A social media addict, he now teaches and researches journalism at Bournemouth University, England. Chindu blogs at chindu.net and tweets as @chindu and @epicretold.

First published in India in 2014 by
HarperCollins
Publishers
India

Copyright © Chindu Sreedharan 2014

P-ISBN: 9789350293959
Epub Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9789350294000

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Chindu Sreedharan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction, though based on the Mahabharata, and many of the incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
Publishers
India.

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Publishers
India

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