THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (22 page)

As for the last one: Vidura loves the Pandavas too much ever to take my part. Why, if things came to a head Vidura would abandon you for them. Father, what can one son of a maidservant do by himself? He will preach to you about dharma when he discovers our purpose. Let him talk, you enjoy his sermons anyway!”

Dhritarashtra sat very still, chewing his lip slightly. He waited to hear the crux of what his son had in mind.

Duryodhana was pacing the room again like a tiger. He stopped in front of the king. “I have a plan. Send the Pandavas and Kunti away to Varanasi. Let Yudhishtira be out of sight for one year. In that time, I will win the people of Hastinapura to me; and if Hastina is won, the rest of the kingdom will follow. Like children, the people have short memories. By the time the Pandavas return,” he paused ominously, “if they return, they will find Hastinapura has begun to love Duryodhana. My cousins’ time in the sun will have ended.”

He fell silent. Then seeing his father somber, he grasped the king’s hand and cried, “You must do this for me! If you do not, you will be killing me as surely as if you cut me down with your sword. Remember all you have to do is send the Pandavas and Kunti to Varanasi. The rest I will take care of.”

He gave Dhritarashtra’s hand a last squeeze and walked out. Dhritarashtra sat alone for a long time. He knew his son well enough to realize he was in deadly earnest. He would not hesitate to take his own life if he could not be king. Then again, he would not hesitate to have the Pandavas’ lives and their mother’s, too, if that could give him the crown. Dhritarashtra knew that, very likely, Duryodhana had already arranged that his cousins would never return from Varanasi.

The choice before Dhritarashtra was clear: the life of his own son or those of his brother’s sons. He did not hesitate to make his choice. The truth was that he, also, had long harbored secret envy of not just his nephews, but of his dead brother. Pandu had lived such a full and resonant life compared to his own blind, desolate one.

Dhritarashtra did not doubt what Duryodhana said was true: they must either be rid of the sons of Pandu or resign themselves to obscurity and powerlessness forever. Dhritarashtra sent for the wily Kanika. He sent for this particular counselor, knowing what the ruthless old man would advise. After all, Kanika was among Shakuni’s inner circle.

Dhritarashtra decided to throw caution to the winds. When Kanika sat before him, he said, “Are we alone, my friend?”

Kanika sent out a guard who stood at the door and shut the heavy thing. He came back to his king. “Now we are alone, my lord.”

Today Dhritarashtra seemed full of urgent purpose and a new darkness. He leaned forward and whispered, “Kanika, how is an enemy best demolished? With compromise or by aggression?”

Kanika stroked his close white beard. Two shifty eyes glinted, a smile touched his lips. “I see you are arriving at wisdom, my lord. For too long you have been kind to the Pandavas and loving and avuncular toward them. I am happy to see that finally you realize the threat they are. I am not mistaken in what I surmise?”

Dhritarashtra smiled his deceptively vulnerable smile. “You are as shrewd as ever, Kanika. But tell me, what should I do?”

“Pretend to love them, as you have done all this while. Kings must be hypocrites at times. But don’t be carried away by your own pretence. Remember they are the enemy!” Kanika’s voice was a serpent’s hiss. “The only cure for an enemy as dangerous as the Pandavas is killing. And kill them soon; in my opinion, you have already left it too long. A young sapling is easy to cut down, not a full-grown tree. Every day, each moment, Pandu’s sons grow stronger because the people love them more. Strike swiftly, before it is too late.”

Dhritarashtra sat very still. At last, he heaved a sigh, as if Kanika had shown him the way. Kanika rose softly and left. Dhritarasthra sat alone once more. He did not brood any longer on what he should do, only how he should do it. The king had irrevocably decided that the Pandavas must be got out of the way. He would send them to Varanasi. What Duryodhana did with them there was his affair.

THIRTY-EIGHT TO VARANASI
 

Cunning courtiers, instigated by Duryodhana, came to the Pandavas and began to praise the city of Varanasi to the sky. They said, “Why don’t the yuvaraja and his brothers go to Siva’s city for the Pasupati festival this year?”

The Pandavas had no inkling of the plot that was being hatched and they felt no desire to visit Varanasi. Duryodhana himself never mentioned Varanasi to his cousins. He went to his father and said, “The Pandavas have heard so much about the Pasupati festival they are keen to visit Varanasi.”

Dhritarashtra called Yudhishtira and his brothers. “I hear you want to go to Varanasi, but feel delicate to ask me.”

Yudhishtira began to protest, but the king cut him short. “It seems I must force you to enjoy yourselves. So be it: I order you to go to Varanasi. Go on a holiday, my sons; go for a whole year. Take Kunti and a retinue with you and gifts for the priests, musicians and the people of Varanasi, as befits the Kuru yuvaraja.”

Yudhishtira saw through his uncle: Dhritarashtra wanted them out of Hastinapura for a year. He was helpless to resist. He bowed to the king and said, “We will prepare to leave, my lord.”

Yudhishtira restrained a smoldering Bheema and an irate Arjuna from committing any discourtesy. He realized the Pandavas must always be in the right and visibly so.

Yudhishtira came to Bheeshma. He hoped the Pitama would intercede on their behalf. Drona and Vidura were with Bheeshma when the sons of Pandu arrived in his presence.

Yudhishtira said, “The king wants us to live in Varanasi for a year. Pitama, you are our father, our mother and our guru. We are your children, bless us.”

Yudhishtira’s tone contained a world of insinuation; Bheeshma gave no sign he understood.

Yudhishtira continued, “The king wants us to spend a year in Varanasi worshipping Siva Pasupati, who burned the Tripura with his astra. Pitama, we are fortunate to have an uncle who loves us so much.”

Bheeshma was certainly aware of Yudhishtira’s sarcasm. Yet, at this crucial juncture, Duryodhana was proven right in his judgement of what the patriarch’s reaction would be. Perhaps Bheeshma could not dream of the evil Dhritarashtra and his son were plotting. He had also seen enough of life to know that all things take their course in this world, inevitably. No one could subvert destiny; her purposes were always deeper, wiser and more inexorable than man’s. Besides, in those days, Duryodhana was still a restrained prince, at least with his elders. He hardly wore his restless ambition on his sleeve. On some pretext or other, Bheeshma might have rescued the Pandavas from having to go to Varanasi. He did nothing of the sort; indeed, he also seemed pleased at the idea.

Yudhishtira could not accuse the king of plotting against him. He had done the best he could and he, too, was wise enough to know that if fate took his brothers and himself to Varanasi, then to that city they would go. Bheeshma said, “My blessings go with you, children.”

Yudhishtira replied, “Your blessing will keep danger away from us.”

“Let all the Gods be with you. Go joyfully and in peace.”

Kunti and the Pandavas prepared themselves to leave. When they were ready, they came to take their leave of the elders in the king’s court. Bheeshma, Dhritarashtra, Drona, Kripa and Vidura blessed the princes; and so did Gandhari and the other women of the palace. The Pandavas set out grimly for Varanasi. They sensed Duryodhana’s hand behind this journey and they knew they could be in danger.

Some weeks before the Pandavas left, Duryodhana and Shakuni heard that Yudhishtira had agreed to go to Varanasi. There was a Purochana in the court that was a trusted man of Duryodhana’s. The Kaurava accosted Purochana one day and steered him to a quiet corner.

“The world will soon be mine, Purochana. Share it with me! You know the thoughts I keep in my heart. It is the hour of my opportunity and of my need as well.”

Duryodhana gripped Purochana’s arm and whispered, “The Pandavas leave for Varanasi in a few weeks. You, my friend, must fly within the hour to that city. Your mission there is simple. You will build a palace for the Pandavas on the outskirts of Varanasi.

Spend whatever gold you must, hire as many men as you have to. Complete the palace before the Pandavas arrive. It must be a jewel of a mansion, full of the rarest artifacts, replete with every luxury that should grace the home of the heroic Pandava princes.”

Purochana stood wonderingly before Duryodhana. Why was he building a palace for the cousins he hated? Duryodhana’s serpent eyes glittered. He pulled his man closer and hissed, “But that palace must be built of resin and hemp, wax and lacquer! Its walls must be coated with oil and tallow, then plastered over with mud and painted. Use your own masons and carpenters, men that can keep secrets. Pay them well: so no one suspects anything is wrong with this beautiful palace, with the finest furniture and silks, the softest beds in which our cousins and their dear mother can sleep. Scent it richly with perfume and incense so the flammable stuff is well disguised.”

He paused. Purochana asked, “And then, my prince?”

“And then, meet the noble Pandavas as a friend and well-wisher. Tell them you have built a palace for them at Bheeshma’s instance. Make sure our cousins don’t stay anywhere else.”

A thin smile played on Duryodhana’s face. A muscle on his cheek fluttered. “Let them live in the palace for some days; let them begin to enjoy themselves. Then on a moonless night, when they are all asleep, Purochana…” he paused again and glanced around to be sure no one overheard.

“Yes, my prince? What shall I do on a moonless night?”

“Set fire to the lacquer palace, of course, you fool! Kill them in their sleep. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked from the outside. Make it seem like an accident and be sure none of them escapes. The palace must burn down swiftly, completely and the Pandavas with it.”

Even Purochana was taken aback. Then being the killer he was, Duryodhana’s man to his evil core, he squeezed his prince’s hand and cried, “A plan that can’t fail! No one will suspect a thing. Especially when they see how Duryodhana grieves for his cousins, who perished in such a tragic accident. And so far away from you.”

Duryodhana said quietly, “Poor bereaved Duryodhana shall sit reluctantly on the Kuru throne. And his faithful friend Purochana will not be forgotten when he is king.”

He embraced Purochana fiercely, then said, “Purochana, God speed! And don’t fail me.”

Duryodhana turned and walked away. His last words were spoken with such soft menace Purochana knew the price if he failed the dark prince. Duryodhana was as ruthless as he was ambitious; Purochana did not intend to fail him. He went home and hastily put together some clothes and other things he needed. Then, in a chariot drawn by Duryodhana’s own horses, with a casket of gold given him by that prince, Purochana rode like the night wind to Varanasi, Siva’s timeless city.

Three weeks later, everything was ready for the Pandavas’ departure. They bid farewell to their elders and, climbing into their chariots, rode from Hastinapura with heavy hearts.

The people came in a crowd to see them off. They realized why Yudhishtira and his brothers were being sent away for a year and came out in anger against their blind king. “Why does Dhritarashtra want to send Pandu’s sons away from the capital?”

“Like his sight, Dhritarashtra’s wisdom is also gone.”

“The king hopes we will forget the Pandavas and take Duryodhana to our hearts. He is foolish; Yudhishtira will be our king!”

The crowd took up the chant, “Yudhishtira will be our king!” as the people followed the Pandavas’ chariots out of the city-gates.

Some of the older citizens went up to Yudhishtira and said, “You need not obey your uncle if he means you harm. You are the heir to the Kuru throne. Why should you go to Varanasi?”

“We are with you. We fear you may find danger in Varanasi.”

“Ah, this is a sad day and Bheeshma is as blind as the king.”

“Don’t go, Yudhishtira! The people are with you.”

Some of the citizens cried, “Let us go with the Pandavas!”

Yudhishtira stopped his chariot and climbed down from it. They thronged noisily around him. He held up his hand for silence.

When the crowd was quiet, Yudhishtira spoke quietly to the people. “Our uncle Dhritarashtra has our father’s place in this world. It is my dharma to obey him. My friends, we are not going away forever. We will always be with you in our thoughts and we will return to you as soon as we can. But now, just as our dharma is to go to Varanasi, yours is to bless us and send us on our way.”

He wanted to pacify not just the crowd but his impetuous brother. Bheema was already for defying Dhritarashtra and what the people said was stirring him. “Today, my friends, you must return to your homes without making this parting harder than it already is. Yet, a day may come when your dharma will be otherwise. Let us not be hasty, but wait for that day.”

The yuvaraja went among the people. He embraced as many of them as he could, clasped the others’ hands. He sent them home, taking their hearts with him.

Finally, the last citizen had gone back. Now Vidura put his arm around Yudhishtira’s shoulders and, to the astonishment of the others, spoke to him in the dialect of the mlechchas: the coarse barbarian tongue that only very few yet understood.

“The blind one has lost his way. Remember that once corruption enters the heart all values perish. There is no limit to what a corrupt man will do.” Vidura sighed. “You are honest, my son and intelligent too. It is a time of danger and you must be on your guard. I speak from secret knowledge: heed what I say.

There are weapons more deadly than swords and arrows. Even in the bitterest winter, the clever rat knows how to be safe from the cold by burrowing under the ground. Though he seems apparently helpless and guileless too, the clever man knows how to protect himself.”

Vidura looked around him with sharp eyes. He lowered his voice, though it was unlikely that anyone else there could understand the harsh mlechcha speech. “Fire is a more terrible weapon than the sword. A man should guard himself against fire as the rat does against winter: by burrowing. Having escaped the fire, the stars always shine above to show you the way ahead. And if your wits are about you, who can harm you?”

Yudhishtira stood listening intently to the riddles in which his uncle spoke. Obviously, Vidura felt he could not be too careful and continued cryptically, “The fire cannot reach you in the heart of the jungle. It is the best place to hide when you want your enemies to think you are dead.”

He embraced his nephew and said, “Don’t be afraid. All fares well with those who have restrained their minds!”

Bowing to Kunti, hugging the other Pandavas, Vidura turned back to Hastinapura. Yudhishtira climbed into his chariot and they set out. Kunti rode in the first chariot with her eldest son. When they had gone a short way in pensive silence, his mother laid a hand on Yudhishtira’s arm. “What did Vidura say to you? He used the mlechcha bhasha. Is what he said to be a secret from me as well?”

Yudhishtira put his arm around her. “Our uncle warned me against fire. He also said our path would be clear by the stars. I always feared treachery in Varanasi; now I am certain of it. We must be on our guard. Vidura hinted that we would find help and he said the danger is not immediate. He spoke twice of rats burrowing under the earth. I am not sure, mother, what he meant.”

They rode for eight days and came to the holy city of Varanasi, which was part of no earthly kingdom and ruled by no king anymore. Varanasi belonged only to the Lord Siva.