Karna's Wife (20 page)

‘They were all there—Bhishma Pitamaha, Dronacharya, Kripacharya—and Karna…’ Draupadi’s voice turned into a hoarse whisper, with a tremor that troubled Uruvi. ‘I realized I was at the mercy of the Kuru princes, and the only ones who could help me out were the other people present. I begged. I pleaded with them that if they believed in God and their dharma, they could not forsake me and leave me in a plight worse than death. But there was not a sound from them—they were quiet. I appealed to them and I argued. I was desperate, but my words fell on indifferent ears. I questioned how my husband had the right to pawn me when he himself had lost his freedom; since he was no longer a free man, he had no claim over me. I screamed, “Where is righteousness? Where is justice? If that does not exist here, this court ceases to stand for morality, for lawfulness. It is run by a gang of rascals!”, but no one heeded me.’

Draupadi narrated each horrifying moment, recalling vividly what had transpired. ‘And do you know what the mighty Bhishma Pitamaha, the noblest and supposedly the most just, said to me then, Uruvi?’ she asked scornfully. ‘The patriarch of the Kaurava family and the most formidable warrior, had only this explanation to offer to me, “The course of morality is subtle and even the most illustrious, wise people in this world fail to always understand it,” he said, but he didn’t raise a finger to help me.’ She stared ahead, her face set and frozen. ‘Nor did my noble husbands. I appealed to them with these words: “My father had faith in the strength of your mighty arms and thus gave me to you. In an open assembly, I am being dishonoured, but you sit with folded arms. Are you not ashamed?” But they kept quiet…they could not even look at me.’

Draupadi gasped, ‘How could my husband Yudhishthira, who had lost himself, stake me at all? None of the elders, so learned and proud of their dharma, could give me an answer. They sat there with lowered eyes like dead men with no life in them!’

‘It got worse,’ she continued tonelessly. ‘Duryodhana kept taunting me and was as lascivious as he always is. He was provoking the other four brothers to disassociate themselves from Yudhishthira’s authority and take their wife back. But none of them dared to be disloyal to their elder brother. To goad them further, Duryodhana bared his thighs and patted them as if to invite me to sit on his lap. Now Bhima proclaims that one day he will break that very thigh of Duryodhana in battle. Yet at that time, neither he nor anyone else in the assembly uttered a word of protest. And then I heard Duryodhana say derisively, “As the Pandavas are now our slaves, I command them to disrobe Draupadi.”’

Draupadi said slowly, ‘It was only Vikarna, the Kuru prince, who stood up for me. He tried to plead that the wager was manipulated. But Karna disagreed,’ she paused, taking a deep breath. Then she continued, ‘Karna argued that Yudhishthira, as a free man before the dice game had even started, had forfeited whatever he possessed, which included me as well. To emphasize the point, Karna further maintained that even the clothes we were wearing were Duryodhana’s property and told Dushasana to seize them. My husbands flung their uttariya, their shawls, away. I couldn’t, could I? I was wearing the ekvastra, the single robe, that day. Dushasana moved towards me and I knew then that the Kuru princes would not hesitate to strip me in public. Yet all the elders were silent and my husbands sat with their heads hung low, silent and accepting!’

Draupadi’s proud head bowed in shame as she said these words. ‘And then to my horror, Dushasana snatched my sari and started to unwrap it. I was being stripped in public—amidst the elders and the nobles and the kings—yet no one stopped him from committing this atrocity!’ she raged. ‘With no one to help me, not even my husbands, all I could do was pray and think of Krishna then, for he was the only one who would come to my rescue. I prayed to him, I trusted in him to help me and that miracle, which everyone is marvelling at today, is solely because of him. All the great valour and righteousness of my husbands could not protect me, but Krishna did!’

Uruvi did not wish to interpose; she allowed the Pandava queen to pour out her anguish. ‘I shall recount a small incident which occurred years ago,’ said Draupadi, and for the first time, Uruvi heard a smile in her voice. ‘Once, during Sankranti, all of us were enjoying sugarcane juice with Krishna. As was the custom, the gopis offered him some freshly harvested sugarcane. He was breaking one with his hands when he cut his finger on its sharp edge. Krishna’s wife, Satyabhama, ordered the gopis to rush for some medicine, but I knew I had to stop the bleeding. So I quickly tore off a piece of my sari’s pallu and bandaged his finger. It’s ironical isn’t it, it all boils down to the sari!’ she smiled mirthlessly. ‘Perhaps that’s why he blessed me with the never-ending sari, to repay me for wrapping my sari that day around his bleeding finger.’ She smiled tenderly, her face softened by her evident affection for Krishna.

Her expression hardened, almost immediately, as she remembered where she was, and continued to chronicle her saga of shame. ‘Dushasana finally stopped unwrapping yards and yards of the sari, which did not seem to end. It was only then that Bhima vowed that he would tear open Dushasana’s chest and drink his blood one day. And I promised myself at that moment that I would not tie my hair unless Bhima washed my hair with this man’s blood. It was my moment of a terrible decision,’ she breathed, a deep colour dyeing her pale face. ‘And I shouted it to the world. I would have revenge. I would destroy those who destroyed me!’

Draupadi was in a frenzy of hate. But she suddenly quietened down, barely giving Uruvi a distant glance, the shadow of a cruel smile flickering across her set mouth. Uruvi had an uneasy impression that she was staring at her as though she was not a person, but a statue—she seemed to be transported to a different world from hers.

‘It will be obliteration,’ Uruvi shuddered as she heard herself utter the terrible words. ‘It means total destruction on an unending scale, not just personal vengeance.’

‘So be it,’ Draupadi declared with calm equanimity. ‘Hearing my curse, Bhishma Pitamaha, Dronacharya and King Dhritrashtra, fearing that the chain of events was leading to disaster, at last brought a stop to the horror. It finally dawned on the old king that he had to undo the wrong. He tried to appease me, saying he would grant me any boon. I looked at him and at those present in the assembly and wondered what a persecuted woman should now hope for. Justice? Revenge? I finally asked for my husbands to be freed of their bondage to the Kauravas. The old king begged me to ask for the kingdom we had lost. I looked at my husbands with their bowed heads and raising my head high, I proudly told the king that they would win back the kingdom that was rightfully theirs by their own efforts. I did not need an endowment from them,’ she added scornfully.

‘When I rescued my hapless husbands from slavery, even Karna, who had earlier flung such terrible words at me, could not help exclaiming that no woman had accomplished what I just did. That like a boat, I had rescued my husbands who were drowning in a sea of sorrows,’ she murmured, the memory of Karna’s comment melting the harsh, angry lines of her face.

She loves him! Uruvi’s last doubts about this revelation were cleared. The mere mention of Karna’s name made Draupadi’s face go warm and tender. There was no rancour, no anger. Somehow, Uruvi got an uneasy feeling that whatever happened between Karna and Draupadi at the Raj Sabha was something very personal, almost sacrosanct for Draupadi. She cherished it and it allowed her to forgive him.

The cold contempt was now reserved for her husbands alone. The Pandava princes surely deserved every lash of her wrath. Her five husbands had given her enough reason to disparage them. She, Uruvi reflected sadly, was the Nathavathi Anathavat, suffering the agony of a woman who had five husbands but with no one to protect her, who is alone and uncared for. She had married the Pandavas—the mightiest warrior-princes of the kingdom—but all they could do was make her their queen. They could neither protect her nor give her the respect and honour that a woman, wife or mother should get. Married to them, she remained alone, unaided, undefended, uncared for and even unloved. Was that why she pined for Karna even today?

Uruvi forced herself to stop thinking about Karna and dragged herself back to what Draupadi was telling her. ‘And after taking King Dhritrashtra’s blessings, I turned to leave the hall where I had been shamed so wickedly,’ continued Draupadi, ‘I bowed before all the elders present in the Raj Sabha and announced with as much sarcasm as I could muster, “One duty remains, which I must do now. I could not do it before. Dragged by this great, mighty hero, I almost forgot. I was confused. Sirs, I bow to all of you, all my elders and my superiors. Forgive me for not doing so earlier. It wasn’t my fault, O gentlemen of the Sabha.” And saying that, I left the hall with my head high, even though my honour was in shambles.’

Uruvi could not but admire Draupadi. Even in her extreme humiliation, she had the courage to strike back at her offenders. But the Panchala princess would waste neither time nor tears on regrets. She thirsted for her revenge. The men had played a treacherous game and she would never let them forget it. In her aggrieved fury, it was she, now, who wielded her clout. It was she, Uruvi realized, who was making the decisions and turning the course of the flow of events to come, deciding not only her own fate but that of generations to follow. Uruvi felt the stark difference between her and Draupadi—both were princesses, but while she had been cosseted in love by her parents, Draupadi had been born out of anger and revenge. She would live and make others live in the same fire she had lived through. The hatred and vengeance that almost consumed her were what she would bestow on her world as well. She knew the time had come to wield her power. She was a yagnaseni, the princess who leaped out of the sacrificial fire her father had invoked to seek revenge on his friend-turned-mortal-foe, Dronacharya. She was born to be the avenging angel, and today, she was determined to wreak retribution on her foes. She would live with a fire burning in her till she sought reprisal—even if it meant war, which Uruvi knew was inevitable.

Ironically, Draupadi had become a pawn in her own game. By her scornful rejection of Karna because of his low birth, she had sown the seeds of hate and humiliation. By her malicious remark, echoed by her sneering laugh, she had provoked Duryodhana into a frenzy of feral hate. If her impulsive behaviour proved to be her undoing, her revenge would be the nemesis of all those who had harmed her, Karna included, Uruvi reflected.

Draupadi was moving around the room, clearly preparing to leave for the forest the next morning. She looked resigned to the fact because she was not yet defeated. She was biding her time—and when her chance came, it would be she who would hit back.

Draupadi gave a weary sigh. She looked calm now but it was deadly calmness. ‘I don’t know why nor do I want to. But what I do know is war is certain once we return. They cannot avoid it. And if my husbands do not declare war, I shall make my father and brother and my sons fight for me.’

Her words echoed with a bleak finality, yet Uruvi heard a pang of longing in it. It was not just longing for her lost love for Karna, her yearning for him, it was a longing for all what she had lost—her self-respect and the honour and protection she expected from her husbands. It was a longing for a normal, uncomplicated life, for a simple existence with a home, husband and children, a life without politics, intrigue, war and ruin. It was a longing to be treated as a self-respecting woman, and not as a pawn to be used as her father and her husbands had done. She did not want to be perceived as an object of lust as Karna, Duryodhana and Dushasana had done, or as a means of revenge as Karna had been guilty of doing. Draupadi’s life was diametrically opposite to Uruvi’s more sheltered journey. Yet, both women knew they would have to struggle to deal with the extraordinary nightmare their lives had turned into.

The wheel of misfortune was turning slowly, trampling their lives. ‘Karna and I might be the first to be destroyed,’ Uruvi realized with sudden bitterness. As if reading her thoughts, Draupadi gave her a gentle smile, the anger and hate wiped clean from her face. She looked almost serene. Draupadi had nothing more to say and Uruvi knew she should go.

‘I think I should leave,’ she said lamely, shuffling her feet.

She was stopped abruptly by the next words uttered by Draupadi. ‘Don’t be harsh on yourself—or your marriage,’ the Pandava queen said mildly. ‘Neither of you deserve it. You came here to apologize for what your husband did. But Karna did what I possibly would have done myself were I in his place. I remember what I said when I pleaded with all those present at the royal assembly. I had said, “To be dishonoured is to die.” I died a little that day. And I realize now that I, too, must have made Karna die a little that day at my swayamwara when I insulted him in the presence of a full royal court. He did not retaliate. He merely kept a dignified silence, put the bow back in place and looked skywards at the sun—as if seeking an explanation for why he had to suffer such humiliation. Uruvi, now I know what it is to be dishonoured. You feel sullied, shamed. I did the same to Karna once and I have been punished for what I did to him.’

Uruvi looked at Draupadi with rising incredulity; she could not believe her ears. This woman who had endured such excruciating ignominy was ready to forgive her oppressor! She was condoning his behaviour! How could she absolve him for his cruel words, his foul abuses? She, as his victim, was ready to exonerate him, while Uruvi, as an angered observer, could not bring herself to pardon her husband.

Uruvi wondered what this woman was all about. As a suitor, Draupadi knew that Karna had desired her as a woman, a lover and a wife, but the Panchala princess had been reluctant to break the norm and accept him as her husband. Knowing fully well that he was capable of winning her, Draupadi had insisted on rejecting Karna for his low birth, depriving him of his chance to win her at her swayamwara. She preferred rejecting him, rather than accepting her feelings for him. For him, that humiliation was like a piercing arrow that stuck deep in his heart. Seething, he had waited for the slightest opportunity to retaliate—and the dice game was his one big chance to humble Draupadi. So he did. He crushed her. She bore it with as much brave dignity as she could, for she believed she had reaped what she had sown, that it was her hurtful words that had sown the seeds of revenge in Karna.