Shining Hero (28 page)

‘Who are they all?’ asked Shivarani.

‘My friends,’ said Karna stiffly. ‘You see, here in Calcutta there are many people who love me.’

‘There are people who are fond of you in the Hatibari too, Karna, if only you would let them,’ Shivarani said.

Arjuna made a disgusted face.

‘These horses go pretty fast and you can’t stop them till you get right round the course,’ Piara told the boys. ‘It’s lucky that the pair of you ride well, for I wouldn’t lend out my beloved horses to just anyone.’ Karna and Arjuna glared at each other, each wishing the riding master had said he was the better of the two.

Syces held onto ropes that were taut with eagerness, slung round the horses’ necks. The horses were tense and showing the whites of their eyes.

Syces legged the boys into the narrow saddles, adjusted stirrups, tightened girths while the horses jibbered and pranced and sprayed white foam over their riders’ knees.

Piara said, ‘The men will hold on till you are ready to go.’

The oat-fed racehorse Karna sat on felt as jittery and insubstantial as smoke compared to his Hatibari pony.

‘Do not worry about stopping, sirs,’ said Piara Singh. ‘When you come round the course, the syces will stretch a net across the track to catch you both.’ He caressed Karna’s mare’s neck with a gentle hand and, smiling, said, ‘Although you have not asked, her name is ‘Draupadi’. She is called after the wife of all the Pandavas and I love her very much.’

Karna smiled. The wife of the Mahabharata heroes had been won by Arjuna in an archery contest. When the hero told his mother he had gained a prize, she, not knowing that it was a woman, said,
‘Whatever you have got you must share with your brothers.’ Thus Draupadi became the wife of all five Pandava brothers. Later one of the brothers played a game of dice and lost everything, including Draupadi. The man who won her tried to take possession of her publicly by pulling off her sari but the god Krishna performed a miracle, so that although the villain unwound and unwound the sari, the cloth never came to an end, and Draupadi’s modesty was saved.

The sun was just rising and its rays were glowing, flame-coloured, through the brilliance of the mare, Draupadi’s, mane. Karna suddenly didn’t feel like fighting a contest but was tempted instead to canter away on this beautiful golden mare and forget about beating Arjuna. His gaze was lingering on the glowing distance, when a blue jay let out a loud screech and Draupadi shied wildly, nearly causing Karna to lose his seat. Arjuna shouted, ‘Better not fall off just yet. Wait till the race has begun.’

‘Right, go,’ cried Piara Singh and the syces unloosed their charges which went off with the sizzle and whoosh of Diwali fireworks.

Karna had worked out a way of giving himself maximum advantage. He instantly took the rail, forcing Arjuna to take the slightly longer way round on the outside though to keep this position he had to stay so close that his boots rubbed the rail. As he rushed onwards, through the hiss of wind and the gasping of the horses, Karna could hear the roars from the crowd, ‘Come on, Karna.’

Side by side the two heroes flew, while the sun rose higher and blue jays rose screaming. People kept yelling, ‘Karna, Karna, Karna.’ No one, Karna noticed, was shouting for Arjuna.

Karna began to feel triumphant when Arjuna dropped back. I am winning, he thought, and Arjuna is getting the full force of the dust thrown up from Draupadi’s heels. Lumps of earth must be hitting Arjuna’s teeth and filling his mouth. The thought made Karna pleased.

Then Karna was momentarily startled by Arjuna’s roaring shout. The sound echoed and re-echoed round the racecourse. ‘Ah ah ah,’ like the bellowing of a wild tiger proclaiming its territory.

Karna’s tiny flinch of shock shifted his weight slightly. Draupadi faltered. And in that moment, too late for Karna to do anything to stop him, Arjuna chiselled his horse into the tiny gap between Karna and the rails. Karna tried to shake him off by pressing till he was sure Arjuna’s legs must be being crushed but Arjuna held on. Karna reached out his whip and slashed it backwards against Arjuna’s face, catching Arjuna stingingly across the nose, but although Arjuna let out a yelp and yelled, ‘You dirty double-dealer’ he kept his place. But he was very pinched. Karna could hear his leg scrunching the splintering wood. Karna tried to strike out with his whip again, but missed and in the same moment felt Arjuna’s toe strike the underside of his own boot, knocking it out of the stirrup. There came a clashing of metal as stirrups met. Karna slumped heavily sideways yelling, ‘You bloody cheat.’ Draupadi swerved and for long moments Karna, with one foot still in a stirrup, struggled to regain the other one. Then he fell. Arjuna, unbalanced too, fell on the other side at almost the same moment.

The crowd was silent with shock as the two un-ridden horses carried on round the course, racing each other, till Piara’s syces caught them in the net. Then the heroes rose out of the dust.

‘I will get you for this one day,’ hissed Karna bitterly. His eyes and mouth were ringed with dark dirt mixed with sweat but when he looked down he was satisfied to see that Arjuna’s boot was torn and blood ran from his leg. Karna hoped it hurt.

After they got home, because Karna had been humiliated on the racecourse in front of so many people who admired him, he was more frantic than ever to defeat Arjuna and shame him publicly. Whenever he thought of Arjuna, his nerves ached with longing. He would clench his fists and imagine a fistfight without gloves with Arjuna. He would dream of pressing his thumbs into Arjuna’s eye sockets and crushing his fist down Arjuna’s throat. He would dream of running Arjuna through with the tent-pegging lance. He would dream of driving darts into his brother’s body as though Arjuna was a tree. Hurting, beating, humiliating Arjuna was the only thing he thought about.

‘What shall I do?’ Shivarani said to Bhima. ‘You are so good with children.’ They had met in the Calcutta coffee house. ‘Do you remember when we were at college, and were working out ways of making society more harmonious? How we had said that the problem with our culture was that violence was the traditional way of solving India’s conflicts?’

‘I remember. We decided that it was because India’s culture was built on a battle, the Mahabharata, and its religious thinking based on the conversation during that battle between a god and a soldier and that is why aggression is at the heart of all our country’s problems.’

Bhima reminded her, ‘And how we thought that if the aggression in men is channelled wisely, it has the potential to transform society and create and maintain harmony. Arjuna is presumably getting a good education at school and they are teaching him team games so that hopefully soon he will learn proper ways of competing. What about having Karna taught to fight graciously too? Why not have him trained in the fighting techniques of our tradition? Maybe his aggression could be channelled till it becomes useful and creative. Also training in dance and martial arts will give Karna the skills needed to become a film star, which is what you said he wants to be.’

When Shivarani told Karna that he was to be taught to fight, he glared at his half-brother, then looked eagerly at her, enchanted with the idea.

The first teacher who came to instruct Karna was called Markandaya. ‘Before you can become a warrior you must understand the philosophy of our culture,’ the old man told the boy. ‘Do you know the story of Markandaya and the god, Vishnu?’

‘I want to do fighting, not philosophy,’ protested Karna.

‘Listen to me,’ said the old man. ‘The holy man after whom I have been named spent his life in walking round the world listening to the thoughts and words of its people. But one day he fell out of the mouth of the sleeping god, Vishnu, and found himself in the infinite ocean of the Absolute. As he splashed around in the dark water he
saw a luminous child playing alone in the endless dark waters. The babe seemed quite unafraid in this utterly solitary nothingness. The saint, accustomed to being hugely respected, was shocked when the child said, “Welcome, my child. Welcome, Markandaya.” No one had called him “child”’ for hundreds of years. He was offended.

‘But the child was the giver of all the laws of nature. He was the essence of all creation. He was the potential of the Absolute wherein resides all possibilities. He told Markandaya, “Everything that does exist, will exist or did exist is already there and yet never there. I am the one who makes these things manifest and yet whose manifesting magic, which is known as Maya, cannot be understood.” He told Markandaya, “There are three goals for human life, gratification of the senses, pursuit of prosperity and pious fulfilment of sacred duties and I am beyond all these.” Then the god brought the holy Markandaya to his mouth again and swallowed him, so that the sage vanished once more into the gigantic body of the god.

‘Markandaya was back in the world again but the experience had filled him with bliss so that he did not want to wander any more, but found a solitary place where, for the rest of his life, he listened to the sound of the God breathing.’

Karna was taught to dance the Bharat Natyam.

‘You may find Karna a bit of a problem,’ Shivarani told the teacher. ‘He is always quarrelling with his half-brother and I suppose you need someone gentle for dancing.’

But the teacher said, ‘Hatred is a great stimulator and the dance of Bharat Natyam requires passion.’ The teacher taught Karna how to move his eyes, while keeping every other part of his face perfectly still. He learnt how to move one finger in a dance of expressive grace while keeping every other digit still as stone. He was taught how to slide his head from side to side on shoulders that stayed static.

You must dance like Shiva,’ said Mr Nair. ‘You must become the paradox, the naked ascetic yogi.’ The teacher instilled in Karna the importance of using stillness instead of movement to defeat, and of expressing rage only through a movement of the eyes.

There followed circus people who specialised in bending Karna’s body. They had moulded two-year-olds till they fitted inside water jars and made child limbs so flexible that legs and arms could be bent as far in the wrong direction as the right.

‘Why do I need all these dancing and circus trick lessons? I want to be a film star,’ complained Karna.

‘You have to beat them all and for that you need an unusual training,’ said Shivarani firmly. She was becoming quite optimistic. Karna’s teacher assured her he was coming on well and she hoped that, after all and in spite of everything, he might in the end be discovered to have some talent.

Karna learnt how to hook his knees round his own throat and slide his body through a drainpipe. He was hammered and massaged till he could hang backwards through a hoop and light a cigarette from a candle using only his mouth and toes.

‘He is not good,’ said the circus trainer. ‘But this will have to do for a child of his great age.’

Street performers taught Karna to stand on his head and pick up coins from the ground with his eyelids. He learnt how to juggle with seven burning oil lamps. ‘You must learn to do it without the flames flickering let alone going out.’

Ascetics came from distant temples and tried to teach Karna how to put his body in a trance and then pass sharp spikes through his cheeks without pain or bleeding.

He was taught archery by an Olympic bronze medallist.

A yogi came and taught him to meditate. ‘You must learn how to plumb into your powerful inner might and find the engine of the Cosmos,’ the yogi said. ‘Down here is an area which underlies all that exists. Move a little bit here and all the rest of the world will move for you.’ He showed Karna how to sit in the lotus position, taught him a mantra then tried to lead his mind with his into the silence that is called the Absolute. Later when Karna opened his eyes he did not know if an hour had passed, or a minute, but he felt as though he was filled with sunshine. His hatred and agony had moved away and when he thought of Arjuna, Karna’s feelings were friendly.

But the mood soon passed and the last training was the worst. An expert in the dance of Kathakali was brought from South India. The teacher told Shivarani, ‘This boy is too old for training. Children must start at four or five years to be any good. The joints of the child must be supple as silk when I start or they may break down and then the child becomes disabled for life.’

Shivarani was worried but Karna insisted that he went through with it. A rope was fixed to the ceiling of one of the garden houses and Karna, with his naked body smeared with coconut oil, lay on the floor on his stomach. Holding the rope for balance, the teacher stood on the boy’s body and massaged Karna’s joints with his feet. Toes, heels and the man’s body weight pressed into the tender parts of Karna till he could have screamed with pain. As though softening hardened leather, Mr Dhar slid his toes behind Karna’s shoulder blades, into his knee sockets, between his ribs. For hours he slid his heels into the soft gaps behind Karna’s hips and thrust his big toe against the boy’s groin. He slithered his toes into the crevice behind Karna’s buttocks and pounded the ball of his foot into his neck. Karna squirmed and sometimes screamed with pain but could not escape the oily squeeze of the grown man’s feet.

At first, at the end of these sessions, Karna’s body would hurt so much that he could hardly rise. He would walk staggeringly and force back moans. Sometimes he could not eat because of bruising to his stomach.

‘I told you he was too old,’ said Mr Dhar.

‘I want to go on. I know I can do it,’ said Karna. He was so stiff and sore that he thought he probably would be unable to pee, let alone beat Arjuna. There were times when he was so tired he did not have the energy to go to Dattapukur for the film.