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© Copyright Mallar Chatterjee

Mallar Chatterjee asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of
this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead, or actual events or locations, is purely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-93-858544-1-5

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 Readomania
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 Dedication
This book is dedicated to the fond memories of:
Sh. Adhir Kumar Chattopadhyay (Dadu)
Smt. Binapani Chattopadhyay (Namma)
Sh. Anantakumar Chakraborty (Dadu)
&
Smt. Geeta Chakraborty (Didu)
……….the past that is ever alive in me.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

B
orn at Naihati (a suburban town in North 24 Parganas in West
Bengal) in a family of academicians, Mallar Chatterjee is a typical
small-town person. He did his schooling from Bhatpara Amarkrishna
Pathshala and Naihati Narendra Vidyaniketan. He did his under-
graduation and post-graduation (in Economics) from the University of
Kalyani. But the association with Economics became like a love-less
marriage as he realised that he had subconsciously intended to study
literature instead. He was increasingly feeling the urge to do justice to his
literary aspirations and started flailing arms about. He first tried his hand in
writing poems and short stories in Bengali but soon lost interest in them.
Then he returned to his childhood flame—mythology, especially the
Mahabharata —and found that he was home. Yudhisthira – The Unfallen
Pandava is his debut novel. It is an imaginary autobiography of
Yudhishthira who, like an ordinary man, retells the events of the
Mahabharata in first person, as if he witnessed the incidents himself.
Mallar is a central government employee, presently posted in Delhi. His
hobby is reading books, especially pre-90s Bengali books, listening to
Rabindra Sangeet, eating the ‘uneatables’ from any goddamned joint and
spending quality time with friends at his favourite ‘thek ’ opposite the
Naihati railway station.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

M
y initiation into the Mahabharata cult happened through my
maternal grandfather, the late Sh. Anantakumar Chakraborty. He
was an eclectic intellectual—a distinguished academician, a music
enthusiast, a literature buff and a writer. When I was in my early
teens, he handed me over a book by Rajsekhar Basu one day, which was an
abridged Bengali translation of the Mahabharata . Immediately I lost
myself into it—perhaps never to come out of it ever again. It is very
difficult to explain exactly what I found so addictive in that book. Perhaps it
was a kind of magic realism far removed from the world that was gradually
unfurling before me. I am still inseparable from that book, its threadbare
condition notwithstanding. Then I got another gift from him—Kaliprasanna
Singha’s translation of the Mahabharata . It is an enormous work and the
language of the book seemed so difficult that while reading it for the first
time, I felt I was being tossed around by waves of a turbulent sea. Still I
enjoyed every bit of that dangerous living! I would later get exposed to a
number of works on the Mahabharata (some of them have been mentioned
in the selected reference) and get a hint of the unending scope for
interpretation. My interest, meanwhile, had turned into a fierce passion.
This book is an offshoot of that passion.
The book owes inspiration from a legion of people and a very private
necessity it is to remember them at this hour. They themselves are not
aware when and how they got associated with the making of this book that
took inspiration from various phases of my life.
My pranam , regards, gratitude and love to:
My respected teachers who always wanted me to write; my beloved
cousins (Milan, Trina and Hindol) who formed an integral part of my
childhood and adolescence; my friends and ‘brothers-in-arms’ who happen
to be my alter-ego; my stimulating ‘thek’ -mates of Naihati; my amazing
colleagues who have always been very co-operative and last but not least,
my extremely considerate senior officers. I had an irresistible desire to
name all of them separately but finally chose not to as I did not want to
miss any single name and be guilty to him/her and myself.
And also there are people I do not want to thank. I don’t dare show the
cheek of ‘acknowledging’ the contribution of my parents—Dr. Alok
Chattopadhyay and Sahana Chattopadhyay. That without them I never exist
is a much profounder truth than a mere biological factuality. Seeing them all
smiles with my book held close to their chests will bring me at complete
peace with myself. I do not want to thank my wife Sudeshna either for she
is too good a friend for that. This book is no less hers than it is mine.
And I do not want to thank my publisher Dipankar Mukherjee, editor
Indrani Ganguly and Team Readomania simply because I can never thank
them enough. It is they who conferred on me the identity I had cherished
most—that of an ‘author’. I can only wish them with all my heart a dream
flight in their fairy-tale journey where even sky is not the limit.
There is at least one person on this earth whom I badly need to apologise
to. He is my eight-year old son Mohor @ Momo (Ahirlalit). This ambitious
project of mine ate into his legitimate share of his father’s time. Now I am
free and want to assure him that his father has come back home as a much
better person and with many more stories to tell him.
A little disclaimer at the end, please:
No comments, interpretations or explanations given in this novel are in
any way meant for hurting or showing disrespect to any
religious/social/popular sentiments and existing spiritual concepts.
 CONTENTS

1. Two Women, Two Hurts

2. The Scion of Dharma
3. Birth of the Malice
4. The Estranged Sibling
5. ‘Equal’ Shares!
6. The House of Mystique
7. The Wrath of God
8. The Dice of Destiny
9. The Sylvan Sojourn
10. The Son Meets Father
11. Being Someone Else
12. On the Warpath
13. A Cruel Family Reunion!
14. The Vain Patriarch
15. The Warrior Brahmin
16. The Martyred Progeny
17. The Payback
18. The Victor
19. The Gift
20. Death of My God
21. The Last Companion

Selected References
‘Yatah Krishnastato Dharmo Yato Dharmastato Jayah’
 1
Two Women, Two Hurts

-1-
‘

C
ome out, Mother! Come and have a look at our today’s collection !’
That deafening shout of Bheema still resonates in my ears.
‘Don’t shout so loudly, Bheema! Whatever be it, divide it equally
among all of you,’ pat came the most obvious reply from Mother
Kunti, who was as usual busy with her seemingly never-ending household
chores and did not even bother to check what Bheema had to show.
Bheema’s dreadful sense of humour had put us in awkward situations
countless times before. Once he had spooked Duryodhana so convincingly
on a rainy night that our poor cousin slipped into a serious delirium. It was
not a new thing. But new, rather bizarre, was the nature of the
embarrassment we found staring at us in the wake of Bheema’s wisecrack.
Equally distributing a woman among five brothers!
Bheema’s inappropriate action was typical of him as he was often
oblivious of time, place and surroundings. But how could our mother have
been so irresponsible? How could she have failed to detect the unique
excitement in his voice, markedly different from a matter-of-fact
announcement of an ordinary day’s earning?
All my brothers stood completely crestfallen. I could not see my own
face, nor could I see Draupadi’s as her head was lowered and partly covered
with the drooping veil. I consider myself fortunate that I was spared the
embarrassment of watching a woman’s reaction on being sentenced to be
given to five men, in an apparent travesty of the sacred institution of
marriage.
 Numb with a mortal guilt feeling, Kunti was simply unable to forgive
herself. She was well aware of the fact that anything coming out of her
mouth was destiny to her sons. Perhaps for the first time ever, Kunti wished
she had not been taken so seriously. She helplessly looked up to me to find
a way out—as she always did while in crisis.
I cleared my throat first. My reply was poised enough, at least it sounded
so. I looked at Arjuna and told him, ‘You have won her Arjuna. She is
rightfully yours.’
Undoubtedly she was. But unfortunately, my mighty brother was much
less brave off a battleground than on it. Arjuna declined to go against our
mother’s words which he, and all of us, had construed as her wish.
Arjuna’s refusal was like a relief to me though I was smart enough not to
show it. But I foolishly rattled out my next suggestion with almost an
immediate readiness which should have been delayed:
‘Then…okay…then she would have to get married to all of us as our
mother wished…I mean… said!’
My voice sounded awkwardly content. My haste was too brazen to be
confused with my general penchant for crisis management. Instead, it
exposed my longing for the woman.
That was the mistake of my life. I still rue it, day in and day out.
Draupadi’s head jerked up hearing my suggestion, making her veil slip.
Her massive, lotus eyes silently lashed across my face. I could distinctly see
hatred, scorn and sarcasm in her eyes. I never knew that a woman could
devastate a man only by casting her fervent glances. I immediately lowered
my face and wetted my dried up lips. I knew since that moment I had
secured in her heart at least one thing for me, which was nothing but
disdain.
Mother, had you just chosen your words carefully that day, I might not
have ended up with one-fifth of a woman who was actually in love with
only Arjuna, my younger brother! Mother, what made you hand me over
such a brutal sentence?
Arjuna’s face had assumed the pallor of ash as his prize was to be shared!
He was trying to wrestle his indifference back on his face. I really felt sorry
for him for a passing moment. Later I would learn to feel sorry for myself,
with wisdom gradually dawning on me! Arjuna’s loyalty, however, was
always a little suspect. He would move on and take other wives besides a
‘common’ Draupadi with princely nonchalance. Though we all took other
wives, we could not exactly move on the way he could. The much-married
Arjuna was too slippery for any woman to hold on to. In a way, he
unknowingly took revenge on Draupadi on my behalf, but that is something
I should not thank him for. Perhaps poor Arjuna deliberately tried to force
his mind away from Draupadi to make way for us! Perhaps it was an act of
generosity on his part, who knows?
I dared not give a second look at Draupadi’s face at that decisive
moment, lest she read my mind inside out. But she could. She saw through
my articulated detachment to discover my burning desire for her. But it was
unwise of her to hold me solely responsible for dismissing an ordinary
alliance with Arjuna. Vyasadeva’s sudden arrival at the spot and his zealous
advocacy for the five-to-one alliance won approval of even Drupada and
Dhrishtadyumna (her father and twin brother respectively) to clinch the
debate. But I knew she never pardoned me.
We five brothers would wait for our turns to spend time with her, but it
seemed my wait never ended. Even when Draupadi was with me, I felt deep
in my heart that she had not come to me actually. I wanted to ask her a
question, ‘You had love for Arjuna, admiration for Bheema and affection
for the twins. What did you have for me, Draupadi?’ I knew it was not easy
for her to answer.
One day I was desperate to ask her that. There was no one around. I
suddenly grabbed her by the left arm and pulled her into our armoury. She
was extremely surprised to find me in an absolutely different mood. I
locked the door of the room from inside and walked towards her—not to
make love but to get a clear, bold answer from her! She was feeling
uncomfortable, if not scared. It was giving me an impish pleasure to see her
unsettled in front of me. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Who
could be that bloody spoilsport? Angry, I flung open the door.
It was Arjuna! He had to enter our room to take weapons for helping
some poor Brahmins whose cattle had been taken away by some dacoits.
We had stipulated separate times for five brothers to have Draupadi’s
exclusive company. It had been agreed upon that while one brother would
spend time with Draupadi, others were not to invade their privacy under any
circumstance. Anybody failing to observe the rule was to be punished—and
the punishment was as harsh as an exile for twelve years! I knew Arjuna
had no intention to disturb us and he bravely put the ideology of a true
Kshatriya above any fear of punishment. Moreover, it was my mistake to
choose a place like the weapon room for private talks. I was genuinely
ready to forgive him, but the righteous Arjuna was too adamant to accept
my clemency and imposed the exile on himself. He was away from
Draupadi and us for twelve long years. By some sinister design of fate,
Draupadi found her most beloved man standing last in the long queue,
courtesy a certain Yudhisthira. If I were Draupadi, I would have killed
Yudhisthira by poisoning his food.
Worse, while she was suffering the estrangement like hell, her beloved
was busy making the best use of the ‘vacation’ by roping in some
magnificent women like Ulupi, Chitrangada and Subhadra one by one in a
debonair philandering spree. Draupadi’s tragedy was unimaginable.
That question remained unasked. I cannot tell how my other four
brothers felt about this marriage; but for me it was something like being
fastened to a burning pyre that scorched me throughout my life, disallowing
me even the liberty to free myself into death. I suspect that the marriage
was not as difficult for them.
I heard many say, including the venerable Vyasadeva, that Draupadi’s
union with all five brothers ensured our unity. Unity! How strange the word
sounds now! Ironically, Draupadi kept us united in the sense that we five
brothers were not only made to stay, live and fight together; we were also
made to love a single woman together! She actually kept us occupied to
feign a unity. I can still remember how I once heard Bheema heave a noisy
sigh while Nakula shut the door of his room with Draupadi inside. I did not
fail to notice how Nakula once cast a bitter, sidelong glance at Sahadeva
and Draupadi who were seated close to each other and talking in whispers.
During our ‘aggyatvaas’ (exile in disguise) at Matsya, the relation between
Bheema and Arjuna turned sour almost unnoticeably; the reason being
Draupadi’s clear tilt towards Bheema in those days—as I presumed. And,
how can I ever forget what Arjuna told me in a furious outburst— ‘Don’t
you criticise my fighting skills lying on Draupadi’s bed!’ Though he
apologised later, his words left uncurable gashes on me. When Draupadi
would fire her salvos at me, none of my brothers, not even my Sahadeva,
ever stood by me or uttered a single word in my support! I sometimes
believed that they probably enjoyed my humiliation.
 Nevertheless, we were very much together. The woman could not rupture
our family, despite such undercurrents. Because, besides being fearsome
warriors, we were more than accomplished actors too! We bled
surreptitiously all along; still managed to keep our bruises perfectly
screened from the world. Not even a single breath of ours ever carried the
message to air.
Who said that the war of Kurukshetra was the greatest war fought by us?

-2-
I cannot forget the moment when I saw Draupadi for the first time.
We, disguised as mendicant Brahmins, were sitting at a corner of the
magnificent courtroom of Drupada, the king of Panchala. The grandeur of
the hall was flabbergasting. All eyes, except mine, were roaming around to
contemplate the marvels gracing every nook and cranny of the assembly
hall. But my eyes had already discovered two wonderful beings seated
diagonally opposite to us, and could not leave them even for a moment.
They were Krishna and Balarama—the two jewels of the Yadava clan—
who happened to be my maternal cousins. That was the first time I saw the
illustrious Krishna about whom we had heard so much. Krishna—the
incarnation of Lord Vishnu! Krishna—the potential talisman of a suffering
mankind! Krishna—the only hope of this planet!
But that day was so incredibly special that even meeting Krishna for the
first time was not the most important incident of the day!
Dhrishtadyumna, the son of Drupada entered into the courtroom with a
young girl in tow. Finally, I was able to wean my enchanted stare away
from Krishna. Dhrishtadyumna himself was handsome enough to attract
attention, but with the entry of that girl, it seemed that the entire court was
suddenly lit up with an inscrutable light.
‘Let me introduce my daughter to all my revered guests—she is
Draupadi, fondly called as Panchali or Yajnaseni!’
Drupada’s baritone voice reached even the farthest corner of the hall.
Then he caste a glance at his daughter wearing a typical expression of a
proud, doting father: ‘She has obliged me and my clan infinitely, simply by
happening to us!’
 She looked so special that it did not sound like an ordinary hyperbole of a
father besotted with affection. She was surreal, to say the least. She was
dusky yet blinding, stunning yet sobre, modest yet full of attitude, buxom
yet svelte—the legend that she had been born from the sacred fire seemed
so believable.
Her entry to the hall was breathtaking. I can swear that not only me but
all other kings and warrior-princes present at the court could not bat an
eyelid at that spellbinding moment.
Inside me, I felt as if a sand castle was gently disintegrating into reckless
waves of a sea. If that was called love, that was the first time in my life I
realised that love hurts too.
The contest to win Draupadi began. The test was difficult for anybody, if
not impossible. One by one, the proud Kshatriya heroes walked towards the
enormous bow with a fake air of confidence. I felt sorry for them. Let alone
taking a shot at the target, none of them could even lift the bow properly.
Shishupal, the king of Chedi, found it so heavy that he knelt down
ridiculously. Jarasandha, the much-feared king of Magadha, tried to bend
the bow but it sprang up suddenly like a vicious snake, felling Jarasandha
on the ground, generating a loud murmur in the court. Jarasandha was one
of the favourites to win the competition and his failure was no less than
sensational.
Duryodhana tried to lift the bow holding it with his both hands but the
bow did not move a bit. He lost his balance and fell down on the marble
floor on his back with his coronet, necklace and other ornaments scattered
all over the place. Bheema was about to break into a loud guffaw but was
restrained by Arjuna and smothered his laughter into a peculiar grunt.
Then Shalya—the powerful king of Madra and the maternal uncle of
Nakula and Sahadeva—came, but could do no justice to his reputation as he
too was flung by the extraordinary bow. Nobody could even make a decent
attempt. I could clearly see deep furrows appear on the broad forehead of
Drupada who was becoming extremely anxious about his daughter’s future.
‘Here comes the invincible Karna, the mighty king of Anga, the disciple
of Parashu Rama the great, to give it a try!’
The announcement freed me from the reverie cast by the charm of the
woman.
 A dashingly handsome Karna approached the bow slowly, with an
elegant arrogance. Everybody was on the edge of their seats. All excitement
inside the hall suddenly diffused into a pin-drop silence. Karna’s personality
and capability were widely respected, his low birth notwithstanding.
Everybody became almost sure that Draupadi was going to be won by the
mighty son of a chariot-driver.
I noticed a little fidget in Draupadi’s posture for the first time, who had
so far been an epitome of composure, wearing a gracefully articulated
indifference. Did Karna interest her? Or, was she anxious of falling into his
hands? Was Draupadi waiting with garlands for someone particular? Was it
Karna? If not him, who else could it be? Krishna? Balarama? But I heard
they were not competing. Then? I don’t know why Arjuna’s name did not
occur to me at that time. Had it, Draupadi could not have attracted me like
that!
Karna lifted the bow with a severe, yet rhythmic jerk and bent it into an
ellipse. I noticed that the bent bow was trembling and trying to slip away
from his clutches but his fingers were too cautious to let that happen. There
was a roar of appreciation in the court. He deserved this. Karna was the first
person who did not look ridiculous with the bow.
But I had an inexplicable intuition that Karna would not get her. I am
unable to explain why I had such a feeling.
Suddenly a female voice was heard, silencing all other sounds:
‘Stop, Anga Raj . Your good show does not change the fact that you are
the son of a chariot-driver. Sorry, I cannot marry you.’
Draupadi’s words sounded like the string of a veena struck out of note!
The brazen, ruthless refusal from Draupadi crashed on the famed warrior.
Karna stood crestfallen, unable to believe his ears. After some breathless
moments, a dazed Karna tottered back to his seat. My uncanny intuition
was spot on. But I still remember how he was returning. His walk back to
his seat resembled the gait of an ape—with sagging head and hands
dangling on two sides purposelessly. He even stumbled against a crystal
footstool and nearly fell. Duryodhana helped him regain balance.
But that sudden snap of Draupadi still seems mysterious to me. She was
never a racist, casteist kind of a person that her father and brother were.
Rather, I always admired her respectful generosity towards people of lower
classes. What made her do that? Had she been so advised? By whom? Did
she despise Karna for some unknown reasons? But they had not known
each other before. Did she do that to make way for somebody else? Did she
exchange a quick glance with Krishna? I can’t say that with surety as
Krishna’s face got covered for an instant by the retreating figure of a
dejected Karna. Most importantly—did she do that willingly?
In the meantime, Arjuna had stood up from our midst. Though he dressed
slovenly to make himself look like a poor Brahmin and was sporting a
scruffy beard and unkempt, long hair loosely bound in a casual top-knot,
Arjuna was looking carelessly handsome. His rugged elegance was ripping
open his disguise to express itself.
Something churned inside me! Was this Draupadi, who had already
swept me off my feet, going to end up as my brother’s wife? How could I
ever be able to accept her as my sister-in-law, with my own heart ablaze?
All the Brahmins present in the assembly were enthusiastically cheering
up Arjuna: ‘Go and come back with the girl! Show the world what a true
Brahmin is capable of! All our blessings will add to your strength.’
I was completely muzzled. However, Bheema, Nakula and Sahadeva
were shouting their hearts out to cheer Arjuna. Evidently, they did not have
any complex with Draupadi. Life is so blissfully easy for some people!
Today I ask myself, did I actually want Arjuna to fail? Perhaps, I could
have rested much more easily had Karna won her. After all, desiring your
enemy’s wife is healthier any day than doing the same to your own
brother’s wife!
Arjuna’s arrow hit the target with clinical precision, as expected.
Draupadi was there for Arjuna for the taking. I still cannot forget the way
they exchanged glances—they were completely in awe of each other. She
was all smiles without actually smiling! I was looking at them—the
gorgeous pair—from a distance. I still do that—with a hopeless
despondency.
The peculiar marriage would shock the whole Aryavarta and become a
burning topic of discussion. For some, it was an outrageous scandal. Some
found politics in it and explained it as a clever Panchala ploy to secure
support of the more celebrated branch of the Kauravas. Some believed it to
be a divine decision. Our adversaries at last found a weapon to settle old
scores with us by scathing denouncement of the incident and spreading ugly
rumours. Though it did not help them much in any real term, they tried to
find some solace by maligning us. In order to humiliate us, they lent a
loathsome allusion to the marriage by equating it to a promiscuous
waywardness.
‘This woman is no better than a whore serving as many as five men!’
That was Karna’s very own interpretation. I am sure he himself never
believed in it. After that confounded game of pasha —the mere mention of
which still rattles me—Karna would make that comment in the packed
assembly hall of Dhritarashtra. I know what made him behave like a
complete boor at that time which he actually never was. He wanted to serve
his revenge cold. Karna bludgeoned his point home to get even with
Draupadi and at the same time, packed the cruellest blow to our already
crumbling morale and dignity.
That particular moment refuses to be smudged out of my memory for
another reason. As soon as Karna’s filthy words pricked my ears, I looked
up at him in utter disgust, trembling with hatred and anger. Suddenly, a
strange thing came to my notice.
Karna was sitting languorously on a golden seat. His naked feet were
visible to me. I noticed that his feet were exactly like Mother Kunti’s. I was
taken aback a little. Curious, I looked at his face in a way I had never done
before. It surprised me even more that the lower portion of his face bore a
striking resemblance with Kunti’s! I had never observed Karna’s features so
intensely. Who cares to scrutinise his sworn enemy’s physical features! But
then I could not give it much thought because I was too preoccupied with
the tension inside the hall after the game of pasha . I soon forgot about it
too. It remained an unexplained mystery till Karna found in his death that
recognition which he had frantically craved for throughout his tumultuous
life.

-3-
‘Stop, son. Another one is left!’
Kunti was weeping fitfully when she said that to me.
Kurukshetra had become quiet. The fury, the hatred, the greed, the
bitterness—all were things of the past. The earth was still wet with blood.
The air was too laden with grief to breathe in. It was the time for tears—
only tears. The endless expanse that ran into the horizon was filled with
pyres—some still burning, some emitting blackish smokes. The war-torn
world assumed the look of a busy crematorium.
I had just completed the last rites of all our relatives killed in the war.
Completing the rituals, I was about to return when I heard Kunti say so. I
was surprised, not because another one was still left, but because of my
mother’s sudden breakdown. It appeared little weird to me, for she had all
along been an epitome of composure even when she was being made to
witness her grandchildren burn to ashes. What caused her this sudden
seizure?
‘Who is it, Mother? I am sorry if I have missed anyone. Tell me.’
‘It is…he is….’
‘Tell me, Mother, I am waiting.’
‘Karna it is!’
‘Sorry?’ I could not help asking though Kunti had uttered the name quite
clearly and audibly, in spite of her snuffles.
‘You heard me, son,’ Mother sounded steely, for once.
‘But why on earth should I do his rites?’ I felt my lips twitch.
Astonishment was just beginning to grip me.
‘He was…he was my firstborn. He—was—your— elder—brother!’
Mother’s words seemed to have flown in from another universe and hung in
the air all around me.
‘Mother, do you realise what you are saying?’ I still don’t know how I
managed to frame the question properly. Perhaps it had not yet sunk in
fully.
‘He was Lord Surya’s gift to me…I was not married then…I had to leave
him because…you can understand….’
‘And you decided to keep it a secret!’ My voice now started faltering.
‘I have sinned son…I…just could not… .’ Kunti once again burst into
tears. She was saying something more but that did not enter my ears. I still
remember that a completely unfamiliar, beastly sound squeezed out of my
throat. The strange sound was getting louder and ghastlier. My knees went
numb and started to bend as if unable to carry my weight any further. I knelt
down, then fell prostrate on the ground and tried to clutch the much
afflicted surface of the earth. I also remember that I was writhing
hysterically before a palpable darkness descended all around me though it
was only noontime.
‘You women will never ever be able to keep any secret…I curse you
all…I curse… ’ that was what I could shoot out before losing
consciousness.
That was the second wound Kunti inflicted on me. First, she had pushed
me into a wrong marriage. Then, she made us kill our own brother. What
more damage could even Duryodhana and Shakuni have done to me?
Mother, why on earth did you have to conceal the real identity of Karna?
Why could you not have done anything to prevent this bloodshed? Was it
not an intolerable irony that while you could become a genuine mother to
your stepsons, you failed to become one to your own firstborn?
But she was to pack another blow. She was readying herself for
something beyond our wildest imagination. In the fifteenth year after the
war, when Dhritarashtra and Gandhari decided to spend the rest of their
lives in the quietness of a forest, Kunti chose to be with them—leaving us
behind. Imagine! When her sons were trying overtime to recreate a nest of
peace and happiness for her; the old lady, with a bent back and staggering
knees, limped out of the world of materiality to accompany the parents of
Duryodhana and Duhshasana!
I understood it was your atonement. But how could you have deprived us
of your priceless company just when we started to see that much -awaited
face of happiness after years of despair?
As destiny would have it, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Kunti got killed in
a devastating wildfire during their stay in a jungle far from Hastinapura.
My mother was burning to death helplessly while we were spending the
day in royal comfort far away, completely unaware of the disaster. We
would later identify some charred bones as hers by a silver armlet with
Pandu’s name inscribed on it found under the remains. That happened to be
the only ornament she had taken with her to the forest.
She did not even allow me to drape her dead body in royal robes, light
her funeral pyre as the surviving eldest son and perform her last rites. For
what fault of mine did you punish me so mercilessly, Mother?
I know I shall meet you again on the other side of the great divide,
Mother. Please be ready to face my questions.
 Mother, you don’t know how deeply I love you. Perhaps that’s why it is
so difficult for me to forgive you, Mother. I am still on a mission to reach
that day of my life when I will successfully bring myself to pardon you.

-4-
But Draupadi, you are a different proposition.
I shall never even try to forgive you. You know why, don’t you?
I expected you to become my glory. You feigned to be so, fooling the
entire world. But only I knew how you turned out to be a festering wound
in my pride instead. I admit that I caused you many troubles but I was a
victim of circumstances. You should have realised that. You ruthlessly
stonewalled my genuine, sincere emotional advances towards you. You
always slighted my increasing fame as an incarnation of Lord Dharma. Did
not you once say that my brothers should tie me to a post and rule the
kingdom on my behalf? Whenever there was any mention of my legendary
truthfulness, you scoffed. You almost made me ashamed of my goodness. In
more than three decades since the great battle of Kurukshetra, I conquered
many frontiers but you steadfastly remained unconquered. Before the
marriage, you had perfectly detected my inappropriate weakness for you but
after the marriage, it was my turn to rip apart your façade to discover an
unjust contempt for me, that you tried your best to conceal but failed.
The raw deal I got from you helped me get over my feeling of guilt.
Perhaps you were justified from your standpoint; but I deserved from you
something better and more. In terms of wronging me, Mother could have
come nowhere close to you.
And yes! I feel no need today to ask you that question any more. It has
missed my interest permanently.
Sorry, Draupadi! It is a small matter that I shall never forgive you. I
swear by my love that I would not let you off so easily.
Ages ago, I once garlanded you with an enormous wreath of flowers
when we were getting married. Now I garland you with a secret curse in
order to settle my last score on this earth:
Draupadi, my love, you will be the first to fall during our expedition for
salvation and all your five husbands will continue to move ahead, with a
cruel rejection of all worldly ties, to meet their respective destinies leaving
you desperately alone for the remaining moments of your life.
Before darkness descends in your lotus eyes once and for all, before your
senses leave you finally, you will get to know how ruthlessly your eldest
husband—an epitome of kindness to the world—justifies your fall with a
menacing contempt sheathed in apparent detachment and spreads his own
private hatred among your other husbands. And they, completely convinced
by him, will follow suit without caring to look back even for a split
moment.
You hated me, no? See I have survived that.
But you won’t survive the revenge of Yudhisthira, trust me.
 2
The Scion of Dharma

-1-

P
eople would say my chariot never touched the ground.
At the beginning, it was quite a straight compliment, hyperbolic
however, on my extraordinary skill in chariot driving. I was really a
master charioteer. But gradually, the phrase started to be used as a far
more serious allusion, rather a genuine tribute, to my defining truthfulness
which was distinctly removed from murky paradigms of the contemporary
society. It was understandably suggested through the expression that I was
blissfully uninfected with the vices of this world. Frankly speaking, I
remained perennially confused to handle it properly. My golden chariot was
an extraordinary vehicle no doubt. It was famously adorned with an ensign
of the moon and planets and two earthen drums attached to the lofty
flagstaff. It had two enormous, well-oiled wheels on each side and ran
really smooth. But I knew my chariot was not bestowed with the power of
levitation. The adage of my flying chariot was but figurative. But
subconsciously, I started taking it literally. Sometimes, I would even look
down to check whether I was really floating in air. Because a very special
myth about my birth and parentage had already taught me to take myself
that seriously.
Right from my childhood, I knew I was special. Umpteen times did my
mother tell me of the celestial announcement that had boomed from behind
the clouds when I was born on a hundred-peaked mountain.
‘This child, the jewel amongst all human beings possessing righteous
wisdom, is the conscience of this world. His truthfulness will become
legendary. He will have the whole world at his feet, and the world will feel
obliged to be there. He will never deviate from his righteous beliefs even in
the midst of all-pervading decadence and will build up an iconic edifice of
truth, morality and justice. This boy, who will be renowned as Yudhisthira,
is a gift to mankind.’
This never ceased to thrill me. My mother loved to tell me how she
would feel a pleasant buzz all around her when she had been carrying me in
her womb. Probably every mother feels the same way. But it is a fact that I
had unknowingly learnt to accept myself as exceptional long before I
actually became so. Not only Kunti, but everybody close to me would also
express their absolute confidence that I was meant for something very big.
It seemed someone or something had already sensitised them about my
epoch-changing possibilities much before my arrival. Was it just an
affectionate expectation reposed on a beloved junior?
But it sometimes seemed like a burden to me. The oracle, to a
considerable extent, restricted my childhood as it often worked as a
deterrent against natural juvenile frivolities. I was constantly reminded of
my special stature and was not allowed to do many things an ordinary child
gets away with. Sometimes I would even suspect if it was a clever
concoction of my mother to keep me in check.
I knew myself to be the son of Pandu. There was a perfect father-son
bonding between Pandu and myself. I loved him very much. He had a
peculiar physical feature. He was an albino and had a strange wax-coloured
skin. His hair, eyelids, moustache were brownish and had a very strange,
different look. But he had an impeccable face, coveted with a sharp, long
nose, intense eyes, dimpled cheek, complete with a beautiful cleft on his
chin. He was strapping and muscularly built. Pandu was a great warrior,
too. In fact, it was Pandu who expanded the boundaries of Hastinapura
significantly by annexing its weaker neighbours. The present size of the
kingdom actually owes its origin to him.
All his five sons were dearer to him than his own life. He pampered us
infinitely, and our two mothers (Kunti and Madri) had to tighten the screw
later. I knew I was his dearest. My favourite pastime was to walk into the
deep forest with my hand tightly held by his and hear stories of his
childhood days. What I used to find little unusual about him was that Pandu
could never be strict with us. When it would become necessary to interfere
with the errant sons, he used to leave the place quietly, leaving the job for
our mothers to do. Was it due to an overwhelming filial affection? I had a
feeling that he consciously spared us the rod, as if he was not very much
confident about his rights to do so. Though a child, I still could smell
sadness in him quite distinctly.
I used to hear a curious thing about my birth, though not much overtly—
that Pandu was not my biological father. I was ostensibly fathered by Lord
Dharma. When I had been a child, Lord Dharma and Pandu never collided
with each other inside my mind, nor did their exclusivity as my real father
haunt me. But as I gradually grew into a difficult puberty, the thought
started tearing into me. Who was my real father? Pandu was the rightful
husband of my mother. Why did they, instead of worshipping Lord Dharma,
have to bring him into such privacy of the house? When I came to know
that a curse had caused Pandu to become impotent, the story that Lord
Dharma was my real father started to seem plausible—but not without some
discomfort, as I was stepping into the most impressionable phase of my life.
All of a sudden, Pandu got dislodged to a lower pedestal—from ‘father’
to apparently a less likeable ‘mother’s husband’. But soon did I realise that
my love for Pandu was so deep, and our bond so fast, that it could not
matter much whether we had any blood-relation or not. In fact, I taught
myself to feel comfortable with two fathers, if not enjoy the benefits. I
understood gradually that I was actually fortunate to have two fathers. As
Pandu’s official son, I was a royalty and the natural heir to the throne of
Hastinapura. Being the son of Lord Dharma, I received a bequest of natural
righteousness, besides basking in an eternal glory as an offspring of a god.

-2-
Despite being the rightful heirs to the throne of Hastinapura, we five
brothers were born out of the kingdom.
My father Pandu, the great conqueror, had been the king of Hastinapura.
Thanks to his military exploits, the standard of Hastinapura fluttered on a
substantial portion of the Aryavarta. One day, while he was hunting in a
jungle, one stray arrow fatally wounded the sage Kindam and his wife, who
had been enjoying intimate moments. Before breathing his last, Kindam
mouthed a terrible curse to him—physical intimacy with any woman would
cause Pandu’s death!
Dejected, Pandu handed over the mantle of kingship to his blind elder
brother, Dhritarashtra, and exiled himself to the depth of a dense forest.
Kunti and Madri, Pandu’s two wives, accompanied him. Perhaps, they
should not have.
Fortunately, Kunti had a special power that could help her bear children
by the grace of any god. She lent that power to Madri and in spite of
Pandu’s impotency, we five brothers were born in four successive years—I,
Bheema and Arjuna to Kunti and the twins (Nakula and Sahadeva) to
Madri. We attained our puberty away from public attention. Thanks to the
unassuming upbringing, we became down-to-earth and developed finer
sensibilities.
We had a sweet childhood. Mother Kunti and her co-wife Madri were on
reasonably cordial terms, in spite of their absolutely contrasting
personalities. Kunti had a pristine, serene beauty. She was measured,
sombre and extremely dependable. Madri was a cavalier, unpretentious,
free-spirited woman with drop-dead looks. While Pandu’s love for Kunti
was disciplined with respect, his love for Madri flowed free with humour.
We had been a nice, complete unit until tragedy struck.
Pandu died all of a sudden, probably due to a heart failure. The grief-
stricken wives wanted to sacrifice their lives on the burning pyre of their
husband. While they were jostling with each other to jump into the fire,
some unforgettable words from Madri won her the contest:
‘Sister, you are no less a mother to my sons than you are to your own
three. Nevertheless, I know I can never become a mother to your sons. So,
you should live. Let me go,’ saying this, the brave, honest woman jumped
into the burning pyre of her husband, leaving a stunned Kunti behind.
Suddenly, Sahadeva, with fright in his eyes, rushed to Kunti and held her
tightly with his little, podgy arms. Mother Kunti jerked out of the spell of
horror and twined her arms around the little Sahadeva who almost
disappeared into her body. They, eventually, would grow an obsessive
mutual bond.
Madri’s decision was bit of a mystery to me. There was no such
mandatory custom in our family as to offer life at husband’s pyre.
Moreover, Madri was too much in love with life. Perhaps she held herself
culpable for Pandu’s death by inadvertently seducing him to get intimate.
Apparently unable to bear the strain, Pandu died; as per the curse of
Kindama. The sensitive Madri was secretly slipping into a morbid
depression as she could feel the emptiness in her life so acutely—neither
she could live her life merrily, nor could she find peace in her little sons.
What was going on in her mind? Who knows?

-3-
After Pandu’s death, the only person who could have doused any curiosity
about my mysterious birth was Mother Kunti herself. But I never dared ask
her. Meanwhile, when I heard that gods like Vayu, Indra and Ashwini
brothers fathered Bheema, Arjuna and Nakula-Sahadeva respectively; the
mystery only deepened. It was an evidence of my adulthood that I felt
embarrassed rather than proud of the fact that my mother could entice gods
at will to bear their sons!
It is difficult for anybody to analyse the woman his own mother has been.
Kunti’s profile was such that the possibility of extramarital union seemed
awkwardly juxtaposed on her virtuous persona—if not a slander on her
image. She fit into every role with silken grace. She was an elegant queen-
consort, a devoted wife, a more than perfect mother and an inspiring
mother-in-law.
But Kunti had a demure, yet addictive sensuality that men could find
irresistible. Her extraordinary femininity came as a boon in a sad Pandu’s
life. When I was about twelve years old, I once became privy to a very
private conversation between them. I heard Pandu say, in a voice unsteady
with emotion, ‘You have saved my lineage from certain extinction, Pritha. I
don’t know how to thank you. Please do forgive me, if you ever can.’
I could not hear Kunti’s reply as it was lost in the noise of sudden
torrents of rain—nature too seemed to have erupted in a catharsis perfectly
capturing the mood of the couple.
Why did Pandu have to ask Kunti for forgiveness? Was it because of his
second marriage to Madri? But multiple marriages were very much
common in the Kshatriya society at that time. Now I suspect that Pandu
actually wanted to be forgiven for his futile manhood. He did not need to be
forgiven for his bigamy, but he felt guilty for sending his wife to different
men (sorry, gods!) just to carry forward his line of descendence. My mother
must not have enjoyed this.
Kunti felt her so-called chastity—both physical and mental—had been
lost. Moreover, her marriage with Pandu was based on suppression of the
crucial fact of Karna’s birth before their marriage. Worse, she lost her
firstborn forever. Kunti fell in her own eyes. The pious lady might have felt
violated, and badly needed to redeem herself. Probably that’s why, she
chose Lord Dharma ahead of any other gods in order to get me, her first
‘official’ son.
Thank you Mother, for getting me such a noble father!
A strange thought would occur to me much later. Did Kunti consciously
want Draupadi to be married off to all of us? Did she want to establish a
polyandrous custom within our family which she herself had unwittingly, or
perhaps reluctantly, started? Perhaps Kunti wanted to get rid of a perennial
discomfiture of remaining the solitary woman in our family with that
dubious distinction and tried to extend the culture to the next generation too
by using a clever, little deception.
‘Divide it equally among all of you!’
We might have been too naive to suspect her real intention and accepted
it as an act of mere carelessness. Kunti was never known for saying
something without weighing it properly. Today I doubt that perhaps Kunti
managed to see Draupadi standing outside through the door kept slightly
ajar. Her ignorance might well have been a ruse. She probably feigned it to
get done what she had wanted.
Unnoticed, Kunti controlled the course of the future of the Kuru house,
more inadvertently than deliberately. It was my docile mother who
inconspicuously held the key, perpetually lurking behind a haze of mystery.
She was not at all happy about it—I knew that. She sadly got ensnarled. My
poor mother! She never aspired to be special, but destiny had other plans.
The realisation helped me develop a more intense fondness for Mother.
It helped me in a different way also. I discovered something that almost
no men of my time ever bothered to care about: a woman’s quintessential
identity rests in her private feminineness, not in any of the roles she plays to
perfection all her life.
 -4-
I never got the opportunity to tell my mother one thing. She had obviously
her own rights to indulge in self-loathing; yet I should have let her realise
what we, at least I thought of her. It was not only Lord Dharma who passed
on righteousness in my strains—I owed that virtue to my mother no less. I
do not mind if I sound mother-obsessed. While her invisible greatness was
shaping the lives, minds and visions of her sons the right way beyond
anybody’s notice; Gandhari, with her more celebrated nobility, was
mothering an army of scoundrels! Kunti’s greatness flowed like a
subterranean river— bountiful, yet not ostentatious.
I did not know if she had been enamoured, at least momentarily, by any
gods she encountered; but I knew for sure that her love for Pandu was
unfaltering and her devotion complete. Knowing that any kind of physical
excitement could have been fatal for him, Kunti became almost like a
priestess—both in appearance and spirit. Madri failed to do so, and
eventually ended up causing Pandu’s tragic death. When Pandu requested
Kunti to lend her secret knowledge to Madri, she graciously agreed and
helped Madri give birth to Nakula and Sahadeva by the grace of the divine
twins.
Kunti’s credentials as a mother and wife had attained legendary status
well before she got into her middle-ages. Madri herself was aware of
Kunti’s kindness. I suspect Madri was slightly more loved by Pandu than
Kunti. A huge quantum of gratitude had made the relation between Pandu
and Kunti little less easy. But Kunti’s elegance created such a veil that they
looked a happy threesome which, perhaps, was not exactly the case. Madri
handed over her twins to Kunti before going to die. She knew, and also
admitted, that Kunti could be just as good a mother to her stepsons, if not
better. No ordinary woman could have commanded such overwhelming
respect from her co-wife. She held all five of us close to her heart for the
rest of her life, ensuring extra care and love for the motherless twins.
My brothers still believe that Kunti’s decision of accompanying
Dhritarashtra and Gandhari to spend their last days in forest was just
gratuitous and an act of ill-spent magnanimity. Draupadi and I believed
otherwise, though. It was the last masterstroke of the old lady. She left her
victorious sons behind to share the sorrow of the childless, kingdomless
couple showing the world that the bloodlust had polluted only one accursed
generation of the dynasty and did not seep beyond that. The conceited
detachment with which she separated herself from the success of her sons
was not just classy—it was noble. And that was the best way she could have
got closest to her redemption.
My hands are permanently tainted today, daubed with the blood of my
sibling Karna, thanks to Kunti’s ancient blunder. The crust of my
consciousness could never pardon her. But beneath it, I always had a
thrilled admiration for her outstanding righteousness, albeit blemished.
However, I sincerely believe that my inborn association with dharma
should not be attributed to only Lord Dharma; my noble mother deserved
equal credit for that.

-5-
But the person who impressed me the most and became my actual role
model was Uncle Vidura.
When I came to know that Vidura was widely regarded as an incarnation
of Lord Dharma, I felt seriously drawn to him. With Lord Dharma as the
common factor between us, I felt a special connection with Vidura well
beyond the ordinary family tie and it soon became imperative for me to
understand the nature of the connection.
We got to meet Vidura for the first time when we came to Hastinapura
after Pandu’s death. I was merely fourteen then. He appeared to be the odd
man out of the people standing in front of the entrance of the city.
Bheeshma was outstanding, Dhritarashtra regal and Kripacharya carried a
solemn air about him. Shakuni and Kanika appeared exactly what they
actually were, one a typically deceitful aristocrat and the other a sagacious,
unscrupulous politician respectively.
I noticed one medium-statured, quiet-looking person standing beside
Bheeshma, almost invisible beside Pitamaha . The person was unassuming,
bearded and the least impressive. Except for the expensive silk he was
wearing, he had the look of a commoner. What attracted my attention was
his ability to put across his feelings without being too demonstrative.
Though he did not smile, I clearly saw his eyes were all smiles. He was
happy to have us, beyond any doubt.
Very quickly, I became his shadow. His intellect and scholarship
impressed me so much that I started regretting why I had not met him
earlier. He had been the perennial critic of Dhritarashtra and Duryodhana
and made no bones about raising his dissentient voice against them.
Dhritarashtra loved Vidura, but not his advices. Duryodhana had no such
mixed feelings. To him, Vidura was simply a ‘nuisance’—a lowborn
stepbrother of his father who apparently ‘despised’ Duryodhana without
any reason. Vidura relentlessly advocated for us frothing at the mouth, and
became an anathema to Duryodhana and his men. Bheeshma, Drona and
Kripa—no one liked Duryodhana and his group and rebuked them time to
time, but they could never wage against them the fearless crusade that a
frail Vidura single-handedly could, ignoring mortal threats or insults worse
than death.
Perhaps I know now why Vidura fought for our cause with such a
reckless desperation.
The reason was me. Our mysterious relationship bonded Vidura and me
inseparably, with the esoteric presence of Lord Dharma behind it.
I said ‘inseparably’. That was but literal.
Today Vidura is no more. But he is present in me. While he was dying,
his manifest soul exuded from the worn-out mortal frame and entered into
my body. I felt much stronger physically, intellectually and spiritually upon
his death. He handed over to me the noble inheritance from Lord Dharma in
a palpable fashion. Both begotten from the same god, Vidura and myself
got corporeally merged!
 3
Birth of the Malice

-1-

A
fter the death of Pandu and Madri, a widowed Kunti brought us to
Hastinapura—the place where we actually belonged more than
anyone else, perhaps.
From a quiet world of ascetic simplicity, we entered into a world
of dazzling opulence with strikingly different priorities. It was a different
world altogether. It would be wrong to say that I did not like the change—at
least initially, though I immediately felt we were in for a difficult time.
However, at that time I was the age when astonishment gets the better of
discomfort. Though still a teenager, I was very quick to sniff the acrid smell
of a latent animosity. My intuition, which would one day attain almost an
occult impeccability, was tested on my very first day in Hastinapura. My
perilous journey towards the dharmarajya began, unbeknownst to me.
The gateway to the grand city was so wide that a hundred elephants
could easily pass through it at the same time. The arch over it looked like a
rainbow spread across the sky. The iron gates were so massive that twenty
janitors were holding each of the gates to prevent them from swaying back.
A big crowd was waiting in front of the gate to welcome us. The glorious
presence of one man overwhelmed every living or non-living objects
around. We did not need Kunti to introduce him to us. He must be none
other than Pitamaha Bheeshma— mind-boggling stories of whose
incredible sacrifice and amazing military achievements had been our
favourite bed-time tales. With flowing white mane and beard, wearing a
white diadem on his head and clad in shiny white silk, he towered over
everyone like an ivory monument. On seeing us, he spread his two hands
like an eagle afloat in gentle breeze. We rushed towards him to touch his
feet but he held all five of us in a tight embrace. The genuinity of his
happiness, and Vidura’s also—who was standing beside Bheeshma almost
unnoticed—were far beyond doubt.
Dhritarashtra did not need any introduction either as his blind eyes
conveyed his identity. I would be less confident about his happiness on our
arrival though his first reaction did not bear any such indication. He would
turn out to be one of the strangest human beings I would ever get to know.
Dhritarashtra and my father Pandu had been very close to each other. His
inborn blindness had debarred Dhritarashtra from becoming the king and he
had to make way for his younger brother Pandu. After Pandu’s untimely
death, the crown sat on Dhritarashtra’s head. But that was only a stop-gap
arrangement. The kingdom was actually waiting for me , as I was the eldest
among the sons of Dhritarashtra and Pandu. Our arrival to Hastinapura
raked up a feeling of insecurity inside the poor man. He would start looking
at us as rivals to his own sons. Seeing me standing right in front, his much-
cherished dream of anointing his eldest son Duryodhana as the heir
apparent was out of the question.
We would never trust him. I grew to pity him, nevertheless. His intrinsic
goodness would often get peppered with repulsive meanness. He was a
puppet in the hands of his sons and brother-in-law. His was an unstable
personality, given to changing course unexpectedly. His blind love for
Duryodhana made the matter worse as it plunged him headlong into a
quagmire of confusion.
Our very first meeting with Duryodhana and his brothers was
memorable. It was a perfect prelude to the furious enmity that would chart
the course of the country’s history.
Duryodhana was standing beside a golden pillar with hands akimbo and
one leg indecently placed on a bronze statue of a lying Apsara . Though
dusky, he was looking quite attractive in a gorgeous dress. The insolence
exuded from him was unmistakeably of a pampered, wayward prince. But
at that moment, I could read curiosity in his expressions more than anything
else.
‘Suyodhana (that was what Dhritarashtra called him), they are your
cousins. Come, greet them,’ Uncle Dhritarashtra, with an unsmart grin,
introduced us to Duryodhana.
‘My cousins? These boys? They seem to have just come out of jungles,’
exclaimed Duryodhana, twitching his face in contempt. Though it was but a
matter of fact, the biting sarcasm was particularly insulting. As usual,
Bheema took one step forward only to be held back by Arjuna. The little
drama was not missed by any one present there. Everybody was
embarrassed. Dhritarashtra chided Duryodhana mildly, but the latter did not
seem to care much.
Suddenly, a raucous male voice floated in the air, ‘Behave, Duryodhana
my child. Please say sorry to your cousins.’
We turned to the origin of the voice. A lean, lanky, middle-aged man had
come out from behind the pillar Duryodhana stood by. The man looked
outlandish and was differently attired. His reddish hue, acquiline nose,
flowing beard, hazel eyes and most notably, lumpen smirk brought in an
unpleasant air to the place. Though he apparently spoke in our favour, I
could not take to the man.
‘Hello boys! I am Shakuni, your maternal uncle from Gandhara. Please
don’t mind Duryodhana; he did not mean anything bad. Duryodhana! They
are waiting for your apology,’ he did not wait for anybody to introduce him
to us and did so himself. The obnoxious agent of the imminent Kali yuga
who would consciously catalyse near-complete annihilation of the Kuru
race, formally presented himself before us, wrapping himself in a
misleading conviviality.
I noticed that Shakuni’s entry to the scene ushered in a shade of darkness
on the faces of Bheeshma and Vidura. I could sense an unease within the
house.
Surprisingly, Duryodhana, the manifest brat, did exactly what Shakuni
had asked him to do. He muttered an almost inaudible ‘sorry’ and stood
fuming with fervent glances caste at us. What intrigued me most was that
the boy, who had not paid heed to his father a little ago, just parroted what
Shakuni prompted. I did not take long to realise who the boy was mentored
by.
Meanwhile, a big group of boys had come out from inside the royal
palace. They, all beautifully dressed and well-built, were coming down the
lofty, sprawling staircase. But I was surprised to notice that none of them
smiled at us. They climbed down the steps with casual arrogance and
mustered around Shakuni and Duryodhana. None looked happy seeing us.
Dhritarshtra walked up to them, this time little more grimly.
‘Come boys. Meet the five sons of Pandu, your deceased uncle. This is
Yudhisthira the eldest; that is Bheema, he is Arjuna and there are the twins
Nakula and Sahadeva. They are your cousins. And here are my sons—
Duhshasana, Dushpradharsha, Senani, Bishalaksha, Anadhrishti,
Durmukha, Sudarshan, Durmarshan, Vivimsati, Kundabhedi….’
‘Come come, Father! What business do they have with our names? After
all we are princes and they are not going to address us by our names I
suppose,’ Duryodhana shot out.
There was a sudden silence all over the place. But how long could our
Bheema withstand such impertinence? He almost shouted at Duryodhana,
‘Hello there! We are princes too!’
‘Sorry?’ Duryodhana looked flabbergasted, as if he had not heard
anything weirder in his life. Meanwhile, the boy who had been introduced
as Duhshasana walked towards Bheema and looked him from top to bottom
with a lewd gesticulation.
‘Princes? You people? Perhaps the jungle beasts thought so of you!’
Duhshasana’s remark made Duryodhana and other boys burst into peals of
laughter. Some of them even sat on the ground clenching their bellies
seemingly ached by the laugh.
The insult was so unbearable that we stood stunned, bereft of any
reactions to offer. Even Bheema froze at this unexpected humiliation that
had just exploded on his face. Mother’s face reddened too.
I looked at Dhritarashtra, expecting his interference. I saw him lick his
dried lips. He, evidently, had no control on the situation and looked
helpless. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
Then a thundering voice quaked all of us.
‘Stop this nonsense! Dhritarashtra, your sons have gone to the dogs! Is
this the way princes of Hastinapura should behave? Make your sons
understand clearly that Pandu’s sons are no less princes than they are and it
is their place as well.’
Pitamaha Bheeshma’s irate shout rocked everybody present there. He
looked like a fulminating volcano just about to erupt. For a fraction of a
moment, the image of the legendary warrior came out from the realm of
fictions and took shape right in front of us. Yes! It perfectly matched my
imagination.
Nobody dared utter a single word. Dhritarashtra walked to him busily to
dilute the situation. I caught a cursory glimpse of Duryodhana’s reaction
and a shiver crawled down my spine. I never knew a teenager, who is
supposed to be passing through the merriest phase of life, could summon
such a venomous look. With smouldering anger, he was looking
unblinkingly at Pitamaha Bheeshma. His looks bore clear despondency of
the devil whose capabilities, thankfully, were unequal to his sinister intent. I
realised clearly that this boy, if given enough power and authority any day,
would unleash a horrible mayhem.
But he was not brave enough to lock stares with Pitamaha for long. His
vicious gaze slipped away from Bheeshma’s face and got fixed on mine.
Like a sabre, it slashed my juvenile innocence. Duryodhana left the place in
a huff followed by his brothers, stamping his feet in withering disdain. The
very first meeting with the ‘Dhartarashtras’ (the hundred sons of
Dhritarashtra) left in my mind a virulent wound that would never heal.
Surprisingly, one of his brothers turned back. He looked at us, smiled and
made a quick friendly gesture with his hand, evading the notice of others.
The boy never knew how his little piece of geniality loosened the
strangulating noose of discomfort around our neck, and made my eyes
moist with tears of gratitude.
I could not remember his name then. Later we would know him as
Vikarna.

-2-
The malice was born. And it would continue to get meatier under careful
supervision of Shakuni. I was not sure whether he actually plotted
destruction of the Kauravas (descendents of the Kuru house) to water down
some of his personal grudges or it was just his natural crookedness that
caught the imagination of an impressionable Duryodhana. Whatever be it,
there was not an iota of doubt that Shakuni effectively razed buds of
innocence from Duryodhana’s mind. The blind King Dhritarashtra writhed
from his own agonies in a private space, but he did not want to transmit the
venom to his son’s mind what Shakuni did to perfection. What drove him to
knit such a nefarious design would always remain an enigma to me.
Duryodhana hated us all, for easily understandable reasons. But his
hatred towards Bheema, and vice versa, was too singular to evade special
mention. The two hotheads were born, as a matter of fact, on the same day
and probably at the same time. There was a strange legend about
Duryodhana’s birth. Gandhari had become pregnant before my mother
Kunti! But her baby did not come out in due time. Meanwhile, Kunti got
pregnant and gave birth to me after usual gestation. Gandhari got impatient
and on a reckless fit of frustration one day, repeatedly hit on her swollen
womb with two fists and spoiled the foetus. In came Vyasa. He collected the
lifeless foetus and divided it into one hundred and one shreds, each as big as
a finger. He then kept those pieces in as many butter-filled pots. After one
full year, Duryodhana, his ninety-nine brothers and one sister were born out
of those pieces of the foetus with all sorts of ill omens indicating grave
misfortune. I was then more than one year old. But Duryodhana believed he
was technically elder to me because of his mother’s early conception. For
once, Vyasadeva’s benevolence did a veritable damage to the Kaurava
dynasty by ushering in the evil.
Bheema and Duryodhana were riveted to each other with a strange
bonding of natural disdain. Bheema was gigantic in stature and incredibly
powerful. His amazing strength would soon attain mythical stature.
Duryodhana’s ridiculous conceit annoyed Bheema more than anyone else
right from the beginning and that made Duryodhana the butt of Bheema’s
pranks. Initially there was no malice in Bheema’s heart; he was like an
incorrigible, free-spirited, innocently mischievous child. My brothers used
to relish the way Bheema debunked the vain pride of Dhritarashtra’s sons.
Bheema soon became an existential crisis for them. His actions evoked a
murderous intent in the convoluted mind of Duryodhana and his brothers. I
got it right, so did Mother. But the carefree, playful maverick would not
listen to our repeated forbiddings.
I knew an incident like the one at Pramankoti resort was coming.
Once, we five brothers along with Duryodhana and his brothers visited a
luxurious, riverside resort at Pramankoti. A grand feast was organised there.
Duryodhana had Bheema’s food poisoned and served it to him. An
unsuspecting Bheema voraciously ate up the food and fell unconscious.
Duryodhana and his brothers tied him up tightly and drowned him in the
river.
Bheema remained missing for eight days. All our neighbouring states
initiated extensive expeditions to search the missing prince of Hastinapura.
In those eight days, Kunti ate almost nothing; she only wept and prayed. On
the ninth day, Bheema returned with a much more radiant look and a
strange story to tell. He had apparently reached the Nagaloka, the world of
serpents, located at a great depth under the water. The snake bites nullified
the effect of the poison inside Bheema’s systems. Vasuki, the illustrious
king of the serpents, could fortunately recognise Bheema as a Kuru prince
and treated him like an honoured guest. What was more, he was given that
divine elixir to drink which increased his strength and power a hundredfold.
After receiving royal treatment there for over a week, Bheema returned to
us, much to the chagrin of a dejected Duryodhana.
But it was crystal clear that we were hopelessly insecure inside
Hastinapura. What irked me most was that Uncle Dhritarashtra made light
of such a grave offence, and tried to pass it off as just an act of juvenile
misconduct. Pitamaha Bheeshma and Vidura were furious. Another thing
had become clear to me in these days. People like Bheeshma, Vidura or
Kripacharya were fast losing their relevance in this cryptic world. They had
ceased to matter, their greatness or achievements notwithstanding.
We started living cautiously. Meanwhile, we started our mandatory
training in the art of using various weapons and martial arts under the
coaching of the illustrious Acharya Drona—the worthy disciple of Parashu
Rama the great. He was another remarkable man. In spite of his genius,
Drona had been living in abject penury until he wandered into Hastinapura
almost as a destitute; accompanied by his wife Kripi and only son
Ashwatthama. Pitamaha Bheeshma and Drona used to know each other and
had tremendous mutual respect. On Pitamaha’s earnest request, Drona
agreed to train us.
The weapon training helped escalate the tension between the
Dhartarashtras and us further. Arjuna’s overwhelming excellence in
archery and mastery in using all sorts of weapons made him Acharya
Drona’s pet. Drona, who was usually stingy in parading emotions, became
so besotted with Arjuna that it even made Ashwatthama, Drona’s only son,
feel insecure about his own place in his father’s heart.
 Arjuna was on the way to becoming the finest archer in the world. The
image of a handsome, young Arjuna taking aim with his bow fully bent;
one eye shut, muscles taut, jaws stiffened with determination was one of the
lasting memories of our difficult adolescence in Hastinapura.
Bheema excelled in mace fighting. His monstrous strength and explosive
anger found a perfect expression in his enormous mace, which became like
his soul mate. Nakula and Sahadeva became formidable sword-fighters. In
fact, they revived the decadent stature of asi (sword) in the Aryan military
culture making it almost as important as bow and arrow. I myself developed
into a javelin-thrower par excellence, though I believe I was never a warrior
material per se. Acharya Drona did not have much esteem for my fighting
skills either.
With our popularity and reputation continuously rising, Duryodhana’s
desperation was soaring too. And that was quite visible. Neither he nor any
of his ninety-nine brothers could excel beyond mediocrity in any field of
warriorship. They started to feel seriously threatened as we were fast
developing into formidable warriors.
On formal completion of our training, Acharya gave us a task which, if
accomplished, would serve as his honorarium. The task was not exactly a
cakewalk, though. He wanted the kingdom of Panchala conquered, and its
king Drupada bound and brought captive to him alive!
There was an interesting background story behind this queer aspiration of
Drona. We heard it from Ashwatthama, his son. Drona and Drupada were of
same age and had been inseparable friends in their childhood. In spite of
their contrasting social positions, they had grown up together holding each
other’s hands. But after the coronation of Drupada, conceit seeped into him
quite typically and he conveniently forgot his one-time association with a
Brahmin of modest means. Drona was in a financial mess then. He had a
family to look after and did not have any income to support that. Unable to
see his son Ashwatthama cry for milk, Drona one day decided to seek
Drupada’s help with a naive confidence that their friendship still existed.
But Drupada had changed much meanwhile and drove them away
summarily.
Though the Panchalas and the Kurus had a long history of rivalry, at that
time they cautiously refrained from running into each other. The Panchala
army was massive, well-equipped and famous for its outstanding ability to
defend. It was going to be a daunting adventure no doubt. The boys were
beaming with enthusiasm, though. My brothers, Duryodhana and his
brothers sprang up to their feet hearing Acharya Drona’s proposal, as if they
were going to be taken to a pleasure excursion!
But there was some disagreement among us. Drona wanted us to go to
war together to which Duryodhana objected. He and his brothers wanted the
glory to be exclusively theirs. They took the major portion of our army
defying Acharya and launched a hasty attack on the Panchalas without
much preparation or planning. I was little surprised that Acharya , whose
authority was undisputed, did not try to impose his decision on
Duryodhana. Perhaps he wanted the fearsome Panchala army to prick the
bubble of Duryodhana’s vacuous pride. Ashwatthama too sided with
Duryodhana, making his father unhappy.
Initially, Duryodhana’s army was doing well, making good advances into
the Panchala formation. But very soon, they realised that it was a clever
trap. Duryodhana found his men encircled by enemy soldiers from three
sides. Even the civilians of Kampilya, the capital of Panchala, showed
amazing bravery and fought them with sticks, stones and fire. The panic
button was pressed, and Duryodhana’s troops were soon all over the place.
Even Ashwatthama’s archery skill was not enough to turn the tide of the
battle. Drupada’s forces inflicted a thumping defeat on them. Duryodhana,
his brothers, Ashwatthama—all skedaddled away like whipped dogs with
tails tucked between legs.
We were watching the proceedings, standing on the slope of a hillock
with a smaller force. Seeing Duryodhana’s army humiliated, Drona looked
at us.
No. He actually looked at Arjuna only.
‘Do it. But I want least casualty,’ Drona said in a low voice.
‘As you wish, Acharya ,’ Arjuna’s voice trembled with excitement.
We rushed towards the Panchala army which was still revelling in the
rhapsody of their sweet victory. Our sudden attack caught them by some
surprise though they managed to stage a counterattack. A fascinating battle
broke out. With that, we got formally inducted into the class of Kshatriyas
with a ruthless ritual of killing.
We had Arjuna and Bheema upfront. Bheema stormed into the crocodile
formation of the Panchala army and started whirling his mace like a
tornado, flinging Panchala soldiers about. Even the legions positioned at a
good distance started disintegrating out of fear just at the sight of him! But
it was Arjuna who made the actual difference between the two sides. He
proved his mettle right in his maiden battle. The twang of his bow
overwhelmed all other sounds. His arrows were scudding in flocks towards
Drupada’s soldiers incessantly. Panchala soldiers were being pierced,
decapitated or dismembered in great numbers. ‘Get me Drupada! Find the
shortest way to reach him,’ Acharya shouted, sensing that Arjuna’s archery
was going to leave heaps of dead bodies. He did not want to cause so many
deaths just to douse a personal grudge.
Arjuna started making way towards King Drupada. He defeated
Drupada’s brother and commander-in-chief Satyajit and came face-to-face
with the king. Drupada put up a good fight but soon found Arjuna too
skilled for him. His chariot horses were killed, charioteer knocked out of
the vehicle and weapons damaged. Arjuna jumped into his chariot with a
sword in hand and captured him. The battle was over.
Drona let his friend-turned-foe off giving him an earful but took away the
Ahichchatra province of his kingdom to restore the so-called ‘equality’
between the two. Drona presented the territory to his son Ashwatthama.
Destiny, however, had other plans. Who knew that this Drupada would
one day become our father-in-law and Acharya Drona our enemy!
Our victory was a resounding slap on Duryodhana’s face. It became
almost official that Dhritarashtra’s sons could not hold a candle to the sons
of Pandu.

-3-
We knew Duryodhana would not give up so easily. He had already tried to
kill Bheema by poisoning and failed. Insane with jealousy and insecurity, he
could now sink to any low.
Pitamaha Bheeshma was our well-wisher no doubt, but he belonged to a
different world. He was too lofty to get the whiff of the dirt gathered at the
depth of the famous family of Kuru the great. We already understood that
Bheeshma, the noblest Kaurava scion, would not be of much help to us to
tackle these scorpions about. We five brothers and Mother started living
cautiously. Even Bheema became watchful and kept a leash on his volatile
temper.
I always knew Dhritarashtra himself wanted to see us down—if not dead.
His honeyed words started to sound ominous to me.
One morning Dhritarashtra summoned us to his private chamber and
graciously offered to sponsor a trip to Varanavata, a beautiful tourist spot,
and asked us to spend one year there as our lives were apparently becoming
‘boring’ in Hastinapura. Although bored we were not, uncomfortable we
most obviously were. The proposal did not sound bad, as we needed a break
from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Hastinapura. But at the same time,
we were almost sure that it might be a trap—not of the blind king but his
sons’.
We agreed to his proposal without letting him understand that we
smelled something fishy. But between us, we secretly pledged to remain on
our guards. Before leaving for Varanavata, Vidura met us. He had
something strange to tell me. I still remember vividly what he said. At first
it sounded like a recitation but then I could make out each sentence
disnctly:
‘A wise man should anticipate the sinister design of his enemies and
should guard himself. Iron is not the only stuff lethal weapons can be made
of. A fire burns out everything but cannot harm the underground. One who
can determine direction by stellar positions can save himself and five others
by finding the way to safety.’
Did not it sound like a riddle? To make it more incomprehensible for
others, Vidura said that in a Mlechchha language that I also knew.
Curious, Kunti and my brothers looked at me. I nodded at Vidura to
convey to him that I understood his cryptic message. What Vidura meant to
say was that our enemies would try to set fire on us and we would have to
save ourselves by hiding in an underground tunnel. Then we would have to
escape towards a safe direction deduced by planetary positions overhead.
But how could he have sensed all these, despite Duryodhana’s best efforts
to keep his plan secret? My regards for Vidura’s legendary intellect and
uncanny intuition was re-established on firmer grounds.
The arrangement at Varanavata was over-whelming—I mean, so it
appeared! One Purochan, a confidante of Duryodhana, was escorting us
(actually spying on us!) there. He took us to a luxurious palace. Inside the
palace, I got an outlandish smell. Although the smell was not particularly
bad, I found it quite amiss. We would soon understand that the house was
built with inflammable materials like lac, animal fat, butter, teak, wax, resin
and so on. Duryodhana’s diabolical design became clear to us.
For a change, now we decided to spring a surprise for our enemies.
Without waiting for them to put their plan into effect, we ourselves would
set the palace afire and feign death! Shukracharya, the astute guru of the
Asuras had had this observation that the best way to confuse an enemy was
to replicate and execute his carefully devised strategy before he himself
could use it.
Purochan was looking for an opportunity. We knew that. But he did not
know that we too were looking for the same opportunity and with more
eagerness! That was our advantage. One night, when Purochan was fast
asleep, we set the palace ablaze and escaped through a secret tunnel. Vidura
had sent a master digger who dug that tunnel without Purochan’s
knowledge. That rascal Purochan suddenly found himself engulfed in
flames and got killed, with grisly astonishment writ in his eyes.
Unfortunately, one tribal woman and her five sons had taken temporary
shelter at the basement of the palace. The fire claimed them as well.
Nobody can escape the consequence of his action which awaits him
somewhere with a grim inevitability. We five brothers, culpable for the
deaths of those innocent tribals in their unworried sleep, unknowingly
brought upon us a curse. At least that is how I explain to myself the horrible
murder of our five sons who would be brutally killed in their deep sleep
many years after, and the death of our old mother who would die helpless in
a jungle fire, too feeble to escape. We would survive past these unbearable
losses and continue smarting endlessly. The vengeful souls of those tribals
ensured that punishment for us.
However, Duryodhana did not succeed in harming us this time either. But
there was hardly anything to celebrate! The cruel reality that the entire
Hastinapura had become a wax palace for us was clear as broad daylight.
The implication was even more cruel. The two branches of the great
Kuru clan had already drifted asunder irrevocably to assume diametric
positions in the spectrum of dharma. The epoch-ending Armageddon,
which was to effect a complete makeover of the world, became inevitable.
 And that was a necessary condition for establishment of the dharmarajya
Krishna had conceptualised.
 4
The Estranged Sibling

-1-

T
he legacy of the great house of Kuru was flowing into two distinctly
dissimilar streams. The signs of difference were so prominent that
people started to refer to me and my four brothers together as ‘pancha
Pandava’ meaning ‘five sons of Pandu’, or simply as ‘Pandavas’ in
order to differentiate us from Dhritarashtra’s sons who were being called
‘Kauravas’, in a much restricted sense of the term though. I had a mixed
take on this new coinage ‘Pandava’. I loved it as there was a direct allusion
to Pandu; at the same time I disliked the term as it seemed to wean us away
from the great heritage of the Kauravas (descendants of Kuru the great)
though we were no less Kaurava than Duryodhana and his brothers.
After coming to Hastinapura, I noticed a shocking disconnect between
Dhritarashtra, his wife Gandhari and their children. I am not saying that
there was any lack of love or affection, but they were isolated by some
strange barriers of unfamiliarity. We had a very different upbringing,
however.
One fond image of my childhood was that we were sitting encircling
Kunti and listening to some interesting stories agog with excitement. While
telling stories, Kunti’s eyes used to roam gently on our faces one by one. I
observed many times that Kunti’s eyes hovered in the vacant place beside
us, as if a non-existent sixth boy was sitting there. Her stare used to hang on
the blank space for a short while, and then get back to our faces. I somehow
sensed that in spite of having three biological sons and two equally dear
stepsons, she was not complete. A sizeable portion of her motherly love
seemed to be kept reserved for another one—whose absence often made her
unmindful. When I was a child, I often asked Kunti about her sudden
swings of mood, but she would not entertain my queries. When I grew up a
little more, I sensed there was a territory in my mother’s heart that we could
never be able to occupy. I stopped spearing her further with my troublesome
questions.
My mind now dates back to the moment when Kunti suddenly fainted in
the stadium where we were exhibiting our proficiency with various
weapons after formal completion of our training.
The tournament—a dream project of Acharya Drona—was to showcase
what his students had learnt from him. We enthralled the packed stadium
that day with our admirable skills. I displayed my mastery over javelin. I
showed its effectiveness as a panimuktaastra (a missile hurled by bare
hand) as well as an amuktaastra (a weapon firmly held in hand and used
like a stick or sword) amidst roars of cheers in the stadium. It was a new
thing for me! I had never rated myself highly as a warrior before. I
understood now that even a mediocre disciple of Acharya Drona was
competent enough. My chest swelled up in pride.
Nakula and Sahadeva fought each other with swords—the weapon
nobody had ever wielded better than they did. They showed skills never
seen before, almost elevating swordfight to a level of artistry.
Bheema and Duryodhana completely changed the mood with their
bellicose gadayuddha (mace fighting). The sworn rivals started seeing red
from the very beginning of the duel. As the contest progressed, their body
languages became violent, glowers frightening and intents murderous. They
became oblivious of the ambience and the spirit of the occasion. They
seemed evenly matched; as Duryodhana neutralised Bheema’s physical
advantages with his better technique. Their metal clubs were touching each
other with horrifying sounds, often producing sparks. The visceral
animosity of the combatants started to infect the spectators as well. The
crowd suddenly became divided in their support, with one group shouting
for Duryodhana and the other for Bheema. Acharya, sensing that the
situation was escalating out of control, asked Ashwatthama to intervene.
Ashwatthama separated them from each other with difficulty and stopped
the fight. While Bheema and Duryodhana returned to their respective seats,
they were still exchanging spine-chilling stares and breathing like mad
buffaloes.
After the tension, the show was in need of something superlative to end
the day on a high. In came Arjuna, just cut out for that purpose. He proved
to be the undisputed star of the show, making incredible things happen with
his bow and arrows. He pumped twenty-one arrows into a slick cowhorn
dangling from a thread! Then he hit targets seeing their reflections on an
angular mirror or by hearing sound only. With one single arrow, Arjuna
stripped a tree of all its leaves. Five arrows of him at a time entered the
gaping mouth of an iron boar which was rotating very fast. He seemed to
have learnt even beyond Drona’s teachings applying his own imagination
and intellect, which was the unmistakable hallmark of a born genius. He lit
up a fire on the ground by invoking the Agneyastra —the weapon of Lord
Agni, the firegod. Then he doused the fire with a torrential shower brought
down by the Varunastra —the weapon of Lord Varuna, the watergod. He
created a mountain out of nothing by the Parbatastra , and then blew it
away by using the Vayavyastra —the weapon of Vayu, the god of wind.
Besides, he also displayed many subtle skills creating peculiar designs with
his arrows. That was a never-seen-before experience for the spectators who
became insane with excitement.
Secretly, Arjuna made me feel jealous. I pitted my own mediocrity
against Arjuna’s brilliance and felt too lacklustre in his comparison. I had
always taken pride in my inborn association with dharma and felt special
with a liberal self-indulgence but that day, for the first time, I wished I were
a little more spectacular. Righteousness may be the noblest aptitude of a
human being, but it invokes only a sombre respect; never the kind of crazy
and boisterous adulation such skills can generate. Bheema’s superhuman
strength, Nakula’s divine looks or Sahadeva’s sharp intellect never cast a
dark shadow on my mind but Arjuna’s case was different. Had he been little
less amazing, I could have been proud of him. Unfortunately, he was just
too good for that.
But that extraordinary day still had something more in store. While a
euphoric Arjuna was bowing to the cheering crowd concluding his show, a
certain Karna suddenly broke into the stadium, completely uncalled for.
And what an entry that was! The armed guards dared not stop him; his
fiery glances warded them off. The strapping, beautiful man entered the
arena like a walking mountain. Several thousand pairs of awestruck eyes
stayed fixed on the stranger. We knew that Karna too was a good archer but
did not know exactly how good he was. Though he had briefly trained
under Drona, he was known more as a disciple of the great Parashu Rama.
Drona had never liked him because of his brusque, disrespectful nature.
Karna had not been much fond of Acharya either for his alleged preference
for Arjuna. Soon, Karna cut out from Drona’s academy and went to Drona’s
guru, the illustrious Parashu Rama. Parashu Rama made Karna exactly what
he had always dreamt to be—a formidable warrior. We knew this much of
him.
Karna gave a perfunctory salutation to the seniors and introduced himself
in a voice perfectly matching his appearance and bearing, ‘O the Kaurava
greats, I am Karna. I can introduce myself further with my archery skills
which are in no way inferior to Arjuna’s, if not better!’
The claim was so arrogant, so in their faces that neither Acharya nor
Pitamaha could decline the challenge.
The crowd smelled entertainment. Immediately, Karna sent the gallery
into raptures performing everything Arjuna had done, with similar ease and
grace. The only difference was that while Arjuna had been performing the
feats with a humble humour, Karna did those with an impertinent
motivation to prove himself equal to Arjuna. His attitude was a grand hit
with the crowd. There was a hysteric, standing ovation by the spectators.
Karna, clearly, was stealing away the show that had been Arjuna’s only a
short while ago.
‘If you can allow me, can I now challenge Arjuna to a single combat only
to beat him in front of all of you and show who the best warrior is?’ shouted
Karna, beaming with a confidence that would remain with him more
steadfastly than his impregnable armour that he had been born with.
Duryodhana became ecstatic. In fact, I had never seen him so happy
before. He found in Karna an equal for Arjuna’s military genius. Suddenly,
Arjuna’s claim for the best archer in the world did not appear that secure—
he clearly had a rival who was capable of matching him blow by blow.
Duryodhana did not let the opportunity slip. He sprang up to his feet to
befriend Karna with a warm hug.
Now it was time for Arjuna to step in, for he already had had enough.
 ‘Karna, do you know that there exists a special section in hell to
accommodate those who barge into a sober occasion uninvited and meddle
indecently in matters that do not pertain to them? Say your prayers, as I
shall send you there right now!’
Arjuna too fell victim to the rash madness! But before Karna could say
anything, the level-headed Kripacharya intervened by asking Karna a
question which evidently unsettled the wretched youth much more than
Arjuna’s frightening threat and would continue to haunt him till his last
breath.
‘Well done, you stranger. Your skill and bravery are amazing, though
your conduct is less so. However, may we just have the honour to know
which noble lineage you are carrying forward before we can allow you to
fight Arjuna, who happens to be a Kaurava prince?’
Kripa’s apparently innocent query left Karna faltering for the first time
since his dramatic entry into the stadium. Duryodhana jumped in to damage
control and barked, ‘Okay, Acharya ! So you need a royalty to fight Arjuna,
no? Here I anoint Karna as the king of Anga right now! I think now he is
eligible to take on Arjuna, right?’ He announced, without even bothering to
consult his father. Not only so, he even held a quick ritual inside the
stadium itself to make him the king of Anga. Duryodhana’s perfectly timed
masterstroke won him Karna permanently. From that day forth, Karna’s
arrows would fly towards Duryodhana’s enemies with death written on
them. From a rival, Karna became our enemy— and a very fearsome one!
Meanwhile, a feeble old man appeared on the spot and rushed towards
Karna. ‘Father,’ cried Karna on seeing him and fell to his feet. We knew the
man. He was Adhiratha, a chariot-driver, almost retired nowadays.
This Karna was a charioteer’s son! We all stood thunderstruck and were
unable to react for quite some time. But that day was too dramatic to allow
any particular mood to stay on for long. Our astonishment was suddenly
exploded by a shocking banter from Bheema that should have cast doubt on
Bheema’s antecedents more than Karna’s. His cruel comment embarrassed
everybody: ‘Hey Karna, get back to your charioteer’s seat which is your
very own place under the sun! You can never taste kingship, as a mangy
dog never gets to taste the sacred offerings to a noble ritual. Free your hand
of that pompous bow for you have to take up reins of horses again. You do
not deserve a death at Arjuna’s hands!’
 Sometimes my Bheema could become so mean! Grievously insulted,
Karna started shivering. Duryodhana shouted vociferous protests
denouncing Bheema’s remark. Karna snarled through his clenched teeth,
‘Line up you bloody cowards! Face me, if you so dare! Wag your limbs
instead of your tongues. You will act wisely if you crawl back to your
mother’s lap, instead of risking your princely lives!’
That was the moment Mother, seated at the royal enclave in the gallery
with Gandhari and Kripi (Acharya Drona’s wife), fell unconscious. Today,
everybody knows why she lost her sense at that volatile moment. But at that
time everybody thought that Arjuna’s mother got nervous seeing her son
under serious threat. Bheeshma might have had some inkling, I was not
sure. And about Vidura I could only say that he had an uncanny ability to
read much from even the faintest of clues. It was difficult to believe that he,
even if not in the know of the fact, could not have at least guessed anything
about Karna’s mysterious origin.
Who on earth could have imagined that the classless Karna whose
pedigree, or the lack of it, remained an object of ceaseless derision; actually
happened to be our sibling!
But on one count, I often feel jealous of Karna today. Perhaps he was the
only son of Kunti who happened to be a lovechild, unlike us who were just
desperately ‘needed’ even at the cost of our mother’s chastity.
Cannot we try to reconstruct her encounter with the sun god with a
romantic overtone? Bestowed with a noble power, an innocent, jolly girl
had wanted to see the god she admired the most. Perhaps she only wanted
to see her dream god. The god appeared. Did the god find the human girl’s
innocence irresistible? Did he forget his godliness for once? The liaison did
not have social sanction. A baby would have put both of them in a dreadful
embarrassment. Still the god could not help leaving his mark on the girl.
Illegitimate it was; hence so sacred!

-2-
We had no reason to be happy with the sudden emergence of Karna. He
became almost as uncomfortable to us as we had been to Duryodhana.
Bheema and Arjuna clearly despised him.
 The feeling was mutual. Karna also despised us, though his attitude
towards us was much more complex. We looked down upon him as a
cheeky upstart trying to break into a class much above his own, while
Karna took us for some proud royal coxcombs much inferior to him in
ability. He had in mind an itching jealousy for Arjuna, apparently. But I
always suspected that he always nurtured a secret admiration for all of us,
Arjuna in particular, as well. In order to carve out his own space and build
up own sphere of importance, it became almost mandatory for Karna to
confront Arjuna head-on. Two estranged siblings, unknown to each other,
got bonded together by a ferocious enmity. Their victory was to be only
mutually exclusive—possible only at the expense of the other. What an
unbearable tragedy it was!
Was Duryodhana and Karna’s union more political than emotional?
Everybody believed so. It was hard to believe that Duryodhana suddenly
became adequately broad-hearted to befriend a charioteer’s son so readily
unless there was a veritable need for it. Similarly, Karna had a clear idea
that dharma was not on Duryodhana’s side but still did not leave him
because he too needed Duryodhana’s company. It gave him the relevance he
wanted.
They definitely needed each other. But like all relations, their friendship
was also knitted with threads of more than one colour. I often saw
Duryodhana seated with Karna on the same seat. Duryodhana would often
place his hand on Karna’s shoulder and rest on his body during exuberant
fits of laughter. The obsessively conceited Duryodhana always maintained
bodily distance from even his brothers. Karna was the only person who was
allowed direct entry to even Duryodhana’s bedroom. I heard from Yuyutsu
that Duryodhana sometimes discussed even marital issues with Karna.
Karna was also a good friend to Duryodhana’s wife Bhanumati.
Duryodhana never looked down on Karna as his soldier. Rather, in Karna he
found the company a lonesome, proud prince craves for. Karna too had
some liking for him, besides dry gratitude. He knew Duryodhana was
treading on a dangerously wrong path, yet could not help following him to
the dark tunnel of iniquities. Only gratitude could not have begotten such
loyalty. So strongly bonded he was with Duryodhana that even Krishna’s
secret offer could not dislodge him from his stand. I would come to know of
that strange meeting from Krishna only after Karna’s death. Krishna kept it
secret from us as Karna had apparently wished so.
When the war became inevitable after the failure of Krishna’s peace
mission, he made a last ditch attempt to stop the war by trying to win over
Karna by revealing his birth-secret.
Karna refused Krishna gracefully citing his commitments to Duryodhana,
devotion to his foster parents and loyalty to his wives. That was expected
but what he ostensibly told to Krishna before parting ways was certainly
not:
‘Krishna, if I get the kingdom as you promise, I will have to offer it to
Duryodhana. So let Yudhisthira be the king. Please don’t divulge this
discussion to Yudhisthira. If he gets to know that I am his senior sibling, he
will surely refuse the crown.’
I never understood this Karna. Karna had wanted me to win? Karna, of
all persons? Was his intense animosity towards us actually a ruse? Then
why did he fight the war at all? Only to die fighting like a true Kshatriya
and ensure a glorious end to his tragic life? Who was Karna, exactly?
Though he mixed with fiendish elements, I always had a feeling that he
was different. I did not know why I felt so. Mother too believed so. Though
her sympathy for Karna is no mystery now, it then was. She saw every
single misdeed of Karna as an act of gratitude towards Duryodhana,
Karna’s greatest benefactor.
Why should Kunti plead for our bitterest enemy? I faintly doubted a
secret relationship between Karna and Kunti. Karna’s physical
resemblances with Kunti should have exploded the mystery once and for
all, but I could not give it much thought. Who on earth feels the need to
observe his enemy’s features and examine how similar they are to his
mother’s? Now I realise that my secret admiration for Karna, and Karna’s
for us were nothing but a form of sibling affection, flowing both ways
incognito.

-3-
During the thirteen years of our exile that almost seemed like an eternity, I
never had a single night’s sleep undisturbed by Karna. Did I tend to
overestimate him? With Krishna and Arjuna on my either side, Bheema
upfront and the twins rear guarding me; I should not have been wary of any
opposition from this mortal world. Arjuna’s greatness as a warrior had
already been firmly established and widely accepted. Moreover, he owned a
large repertoire of divine weapons courtesy Lord Indra and other gods.
There should not have been any doubt in my mind about Arjuna’s victory
over Karna. Still there was. Often would I imagine the scene where Arjuna
and Karna were furiously confronting each other and feel a shiver in my
gut. I was obsessively wary of Karna and sceptical about Arjuna’s victory.
Everybody would feel disgusted at my excessive phobia for Karna. Yet, I
could not remove from my mind the disturbing image of a bellicose Karna
honing his shafts and preparing for the battle of his life.
I was sure that Karna would kill at least one of us five brothers. But I did
not know that my fear was baseless. I did not know that Karna had already
granted immunity to us, except Arjuna. In another secret meeting between
the estranged mother and son, Karna had promised to Kunti that regardless
of the outcome of his duel against Arjuna, her five sons would survive the
war. Karna had apparently given her a word that he would leave her other
four sons unharmed but not Arjuna—either he would kill Arjuna or the
other way round. Thus the count of her sons would remain five as it had
always been known to be—without Arjuna or without Karna.
Yes! Kunti had met Karna surreptitiously before the war. She disclosed it
to us only after Karna’s death. Karna’s death made me aware of many
things around me I never had any inkling of. I grew wiser upon his death.
According to Kunti, Karna had addressed her as ‘Arjuna’s mother’ which
was apparently spiked with a cruel banter that was not lost on her, though
she did not mind that or rather did not afford to mind that. She disclosed to
him that she was not only the mother of Arjuna, but the mother of Karna as
well. Karna did not appear to be much moved at the revelation. Probably he
already knew it. Actually, Kunti’s timing was wrong. She introduced herself
to Karna only when the war became inevitable. She made herself look like a
selfish mother who finally deigned to accept her abandoned son only in an
attempt to prevent the war and save the lives of her dearer, legitimate sons.
Her meeting with Karna was not much successful as Karna was not ready to
switch loyalty. Unknown to her, her disowned first son had grown up in
obscurity with a fire in his belly and a ferocious determination to burst
asunder the throttling ordinariness that had been forced upon him for no
fault of his.
On the seventeenth day of the Kurukshetra war, I had an almost
demented outburst on Arjuna. Karna caused that. That day was incredibly
violent. Bheema killed Duhshasana in a macabre fashion in the morning
itself and ripped his chest to drink his blood. A shocked, retreating Kaurava
army was then resurrected by Karna. He was at his deadliest best on that
day and was rampaging through my army. By noontime, Karna, with able
support from Ashwatthama, decimated almost all major Panchala and
Srinjaya divisions. Our soldiers were panicking. The samshaptakas (the
‘suicide squad’ consisting of the Trigarta and the Narayani armies) were
desperately fighting Arjuna inspite of suffering heavy casualty. Bheema was
fighting his heart out in a desperate attempt to save the day. I myself
confronted Karna once, in a fit of desperation. The fight did not last long.
Though I did well initially, he soon proved too much for me. He killed
Chandradeva and Dandadhar—two renowned Panchala warriors guarding
me. I got seriously injured and sat down on my knees inside the chariot.
Karna came close to me with an unbearable smirk. I shut my eyes and
waited for death at his hands. But surprisingly, Karna let me off, though not
without some snide taunts slighting my fighting skills. I had to retreat into
the safety of the camp, with bruises all over my body and mind.
Arjuna suddenly entered the camp, followed by Krishna. I sprang up
from the bed, thinking that he had finished off Karna, and congratulated
them. But Arjuna actually came to see whether my injury was critical.
‘How are you now brother? I just heard that Karna wounded you. How
are you feeling?’
Arjuna’s display of genuine concern at that crucial hour irritated me so
much that I lost control over myself. What did not I call him—coward,
escapist, self-obsessed, overrated—what not! I, even, went as far as calling
him a disgrace to Kunti’s womb! Surprised, Arjuna tolerated my insane
assault with a lowered head, not uttering a single word until I ended up
suggesting him to give away his ‘Gandiva’ (his famous bow) to someone
more deserving. My secret jealousy for Arjuna slithered out of the closet for
once. My most brazen, base ego stood stark naked right in front of me for a
while.
 Finally, the shackle of Arjuna’s self-restraint was broken and now it was
his turn to retaliate, ‘It is a pity that you don’t feel ashamed to call me a
coward while you yourself ran away from the battlefield! You are the root
of all the sufferings we had to experience throughout our lives. You
gambled on us at the pasha game and lost us. You did not spare even
Draupadi! It is you who pushed my son Abhimanyu to death while you
stayed safely behind!’
Had these words come from Bheema, I would not have minded so much
perhaps. But Arjuna meant it and had something more to convey. What he
said was not merely a volatile bombast, rather a piece of his mind. He
unleashed the second round of diatribe, which bared his most private wound
for the first and the only time ever, ‘While you pleasure yourself with your
vain sense of dharma lying on Draupadi’s bed, I risk my life to save your
day! And still you have only this to say of me!’
I sat speechless. The venom in Arjuna’s vicious words started creeping
through my limbs and senses. I was feeling completely removed from the
tumult of the war outside. Arjuna’s words seemed to have been the final
truth of my life and nothing else mattered to me any more at that moment.
Arjuna was saying something more with his unsheathed sword in hand, but
the words seemed to lose way in the air itself.
Krishna salvaged the situation. He gave both of us an earful and had
Arjuna apologise. Arjuna had already melted down with his anger
completely vented. He burst into tears and fell down on my feet. I was still
in a state of stupor though did not hesitate to lift him up with two hands.
Then we threw ourselves at each other to get locked in a crushing embrace.
I knew I needed to start another lifelong battle within myself to forget what
Arjuna had just said. In the heat of the moment today Arjuna revealed what
bitterness he bore me in his heart beyond anybody’s notice or guess and
proved today that that I was not the only great actor in our midst—he too
had been a thespian of no lesser calibre.
I wiped Arjuna’s tears and gave him blessings for his decisive adventure
against Karna.
‘Brother, the next time we meet, there will be no Karna between us!’
Arjuna kept his promise. That was an outstanding duel. I was not even
born when the great Parashu Rama and our Pitamaha Bheeshma had
furiously fought each other in a high-octane clash. I cannot compare the
Karna-Arjuna duel with that legendary battle. The only thing I knew was
that such a deadly combat between two evenly matched, supremely skilled
men was but a lifetime experience for the people who witnessed it.
Unfortunately, one stray arrow of Karna again hit me on an old wound and I
was forced to retreat once again missing the climax of the drama. Later, I
would take a blow-by-blow account of the epic battle from many sources
including Krishna himself. I would know how Arjuna had to break the code
of war to kill Karna while he was busy freeing his chariot wheel from the
clutch of earth, in a symbolic rendition of his tragic life where his lifelong
efforts to break free from clutches of misfortunes ultimately failed.
The news of Karna’s death was conveyed to me through deafening
trumpets of war-horns. I clearly recognised some familiar horns—the
Panchajannya of Krishna, Devadatta of Arjuna and Manipushpak of
Sahadeva. Ecstatic roars of Bheema, Satyaki, Dhrishtadyumna, Nakula and
Chekitana brought the most cherished news to my ears.
I immediately rushed to the battlefield.
I saw Karna for one last time. His beautifully proportioned body was
lying on its back in a pool of blood, minus his head, which I found at a
distance from his body. The sun was just setting, scattering a peculiar hue to
the world—venting the grief the sun god himself suffered at the loss of his
favourite child.
Our joy knew no bounds. With Karna’s fall, our victory became just as
certain as the sunrise of tomorrow morning. There were hysteric
celebrations at our camps. I myself felt that a pleasant slumber was slowly
overwhelming my senses to grant me the evasive sleep that had eluded me
for the last thirteen years.
Only one person in our camp did not join the celebration. He was but
Arjuna.
I did not fail to pick up the unmistakable pain on his face. His ego had
clearly taken a beating from his inability to kill Karna in a fair fight.
Though powered by Krishna all along, Arjuna could not prove himself
decisively superior to Karna, the outcome of the duel notwithstanding.
I suspect, Arjuna’s pains had more mysterious elements. It might have
been the unconscious affection for a sibling or secret respect for a rival,
subsumed in a misleading hatred. It might have also been a profound sense
of vacuum to henceforth live without a suitable opposite number, without a
proper challenge to enliven spirits, without a true justification for living.
I had a strange observation. Arjuna was never the same man again, after
Karna’s death. He became slightly reclusive and a solitarist. In spite of
Krishna’s effervescent and enlightening presence all around him, Arjuna’s
mind often diverted. When Karna’s real identity was divulged to us, Arjuna
was inconsolable. Afterwards, he developed a special bonding with
Vrishaketu, Karna’s minor son and became his mentor. Vrishaketu became
very much attached to him and occupied the vacuum caused by the losses of
Abhimanyu, Iravana and Shrutakarma, Arjuna’s sons who died in the battle.
But much more surprising was the sudden decline in Arjuna’s martial
skills. He became a shadow of his usual self. His arrows were never as
infallible, as precise as before. His lightening reflexes would become
noticeably lax. He would even forget to handle many of his weapons. He
was clearly past his prime since Karna’s death. During my Ashwamedha
(horse-sacrifice) ritual, he would be roundly defeated and wounded by his
own son Bavruvahana in Manipur.
The blood of Karna that wetted Kurukshetra and gave us infinite
happiness was actually my elder brother’s!
Unbeknownst to me, I had to ascend the throne by not only killing
hundred sons of Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, but also murdering the eldest
son of our own mother.
 5
‘Equal’ Shares!

-1-

N
either the daring attempt on Bheema’s life nor the incident at
Varanavata was unexpected. Our smart precautions helped us survive
at Varanavata. Hastinapura had taught us to doubt, feign, scheme and
most importantly, anticipate. Sometimes I wonder whether cynicism
creeped into our lives way too early. While we were running away through
the dense jungle of Varanavata leaving behind that lac palace up in
monstrous flames, we were actually fast moving away from our
irreproachable juvenility towards complex adulthood, burning a certain
virtue called innocence to ashes.
We decided to feign our death in that devastating fire. Kunti advised us
not to return to Hastinapura immediately and we decided to stay incognito
for some days. The kingdom my father had once successfully ruled over
was not safe for us.
We became so tired that night that we all lay down on the ground
beneath a large banyan tree in the jungle and immediately fell asleep. The
queen and princes of Hastinapura were sleepishly taking turns in dirt and
filth of a jungle! Suddenly, we were woken up by a frightening noise.
What I saw with my sleepy eyes still gives me goose bumps. I saw
Bheema being dragged by a horrible creature. The creature looked so
abominable that I had to close my eyes in sheer fright. I would learn a little
later that the uncouth being was a Rakshasa called Hidimbo, who
apparently ruled over that jungle. He could not resist the temptation of
feasting on delicious human flesh. As Bheema was the healthiest among us,
he turned his eyes on Bheema first. There was another reason of his
frenzied assault on Bheema, which we would know shortly.
But Hidimbo did not know Bheema. He could not imagine that a mere
human being could give him such a formidable challenge. In spite of being
almost twice as big as Bheema, Hidimbo soon found that it was him who
was in trouble, not Bheema. They fought on relentlessly through the night.
While it was just about to dawn, Bheema dashed the Rakshasa on the
ground shaking the earth. The battered monster fell dead creating a gaping
crater on the ground.
Meanwhile, I noticed a female monster watching the fight. We had not
paid her much attention because of the gruelling combat happening in front
of us. Now, after Bheema’s scintillating victory, I turned towards the
Rakshasi . She, evidently oblivious of any other thing around her, was
staring unblinkingly at Bheema. She was clearly enamoured by my brother!
The bare upper portion of Bheema’s body was wet with perspiration.
With his molten gold complexion and mind-boggling physique, he was
looking like a golden sculpture. He was sitting on his haunches panting,
completing the fight.
‘Who are you?’ Mother asked the Rakshasi in a voice that was
unexpectedly steady.
The Rakshasi seemed to have been shaken out of a trance. But her words
would have sent any sane head reeling:
‘Mother, I am Hidimba, the sister of Hidimbo, whom your mighty son
has just killed! I…er…I have fallen in love with that brave son of yours,
don’t mind me! Seeing your son is by far the most beautiful incident of my
life, Mother. I actually tried to save you from my brother. Your son is the
man of my life. But trust me, I will never separate him from you. Pray don’t
refuse me, for that will surely leave me lifeless.’
Her voice was surprisingly sweet. But still, none of us had ever heard of
anything weirder than a Rakshasi expressing her love to a human youth! We
were completely nonplussed. Moments later, everybody looked at me for
my reaction which, it seemed, was going to be the only thing to matter.
The dreadful night was dawning then. I took a close look at the strange
female. Hidimba was reasonably good looking by the Rakshasa standard.
Her dense, curly, brownish hair was tied in a lofty top-knot. She had large,
hazel eyes; thick, arch-like eyebrows; bulbous nose and fullish lips forming
a lovely pout. A slight smile would show her sharp fangs, lending a very
different charm to the roundish face. She had a big structure and was
curvaceous; with heavy bosom, slender waist and beautiful, long, well-built
legs. She covered herself with two pieces of tiger-skin that expressed her
brash raunchiness toned down with a tinge of modesty uncharacteristic of a
Rakshasi . I could swear that this she-monster must be very different from
the others of her species. I admit it was not much decent of me to examine
the physical features of the would-be wife of my brother so minutely, but
could not help as I had never seen a Rakshasi before—a good looking one
at that!
But it was something other than her looks that impressed me more. In the
first rays of a rising sun, I saw through the façade of a dreadful, man-eating
demon to discover a quintessential woman imploring to submit herself, no
strings attached, to her beloved. Hidimba’s libido, spurred by Bheema’s
stunning physical appeal and breathtaking machismo, seemed very human
to me. It seemed that I was seeing an emotionally and bodily heightened
ordinary human female, desperately trying to get out of a dark life and get
herself the taste of a noble experience of love.
I looked at Bheema’s face through the corner of my eyes. Usually,
Bheema’s face bore exactly what he had in his heart but this time, his
expressions were quite complex. He was trying to show off that he was
unmoved by Hidimba’s pleadings, but I realised that the love-struck
Rakshasi had already created an impression on him.
I also exchanged stares with Mother. Though she did not smile, I noticed
a little frolic in her intelligent eyes. I made up my mind. Weighing my
words very carefully, I said, ‘You will be granted what you want, Hidimba,
but not without restrictions. You will be allowed to have only some days of
Bheema’s life. You will have to let him move on. I know, Hidimba, that you
are sensible enough to understand why he can’t spend his entire life with
you. Please be happy with what we are capable of giving to you.’
Though Bheema did not show any reaction, I knew he thanked me inside
his mind for solving a queer puzzle of his life!
Hidimba was graceful enough to accept the offer. I knew she would
accept it. That dignified Rakshasi had no other ambition or design. She only
wanted to love Bheema, and treasure up that blissful experience in her
memory for the rest of her life. She never claimed any place in our royalty.
That extraordinary lady got nothing from Bheema or us, yet gave us away a
priceless gift—Ghatotkacha—the only son of Bheema and Hidimba; the
eldest of our next generation and my dearest! After close to a couple of
decades, that Rakshasa son of Bheema would win the dharmayuddha for us
at the expense of his noble life. That non-human mother and son would
leave us humbled with their swaggering magnanimity.

-2-
Parting with Hidimba, we started wandering about masquerading as
mendicant Brahmins—the safest disguise. We travelled east and reached
Panchala, the kingdom of the formidable King Drupada whom we had
defeated to please Acharya Drona. It gave me a sad feeling that we were
walking like beggars on the streets of a kingdom where our triumphant
army had once marched.
But our sadness evaporated swiftly as we stumbled upon Vyasadeva near
Kampilya. He recognised us without any difficulty, easily seeing through
our disguise.
‘It is good that you have come here. You will have to come here again.
But for the time being, you better stay at Ekachakra city nearby and wait till
your destiny brings you here.’
It was no good asking him to explain what he meant. We just obeyed and
followed him to Ekachakra, a beautiful place located near the kingdom of
Magadha. Though it was a rich, prosperous city, I felt a gloom hanging in
its air. Vyasa took us to a kind Brahmin who gladly accommodated us at his
humble residence. However, Vyasa did not disclose our identities, and we
continued to stay there as a poor Brahmin family, making a difficult living
by seeking alms.
The Brahmin gentleman, named Hrittwick as far as my memory goes,
was an extremely decent man. He was living there with his family
comprising his wife, a daughter and a minor son. He was blindly devoted to
Vyasadeva. In spite of his own hardship, he happily agreed to let us stay at
his place. We would give him a share of our daily earnings which he
accepted quite reluctantly.
 One day, we heard them sobbing. Curious, Mother Kunti went to their
room to enquire if anything was wrong. She came back with a hair-raising
story.
The city of Ekachakra was under the command of a terrible Rakshasa
called Bakasura who lived in the dense jungle beside the city. He protected
the city on a cruel condition. Everyday, one family of the city had to send
one of its members to him who Bakasura would eat up! Today, it was the
turn of the poor Brahmin’s family to send someone to the demon as his
‘meal’ of the day.
Before we could digest the information properly, Kunti fired another
salvo that completely floored us:
‘I have given him my word that he and his family would remain
unharmed, come what may! One of my five mighty sons will go to the
Rakshasa today!’
I stammered and fumbled out of anger and fear while shouting vehement
protests. My brothers remained silent. Kunti’s stern voice entered my ears,
‘Queen Kunti hates to live off anybody’s kindness. This noble Brahmin has
done us a great service by allowing us to stay in his place, that too with
sufficient respect. It is our turn now to return him some favour. Besides, my
sons are invincible and will have long lives. Bheema will go. Get up
Bheema!’
Kunti said with her index finger trained at Bheema who grinned
gleefully. Great children come out of only greater wombs. A true mother
not only knits protection around her children with love, she also exudes
courage that seeps into her children. Kunti taught me one thing that
moment. A Kshatriya mother or wife is not a lesser warrior herself. She too
fights an invisible, bloodless battle within herself helping her son or
husband overcome fear.
Bheema killed Bakasura without much difficulty. He was fast becoming a
notorious nemesis for the Rakshasas . Bheema’s reputation as the ‘slayer of
demons’ was being firmly established in the dark underbelly of the living
world without our knowledge. Hidimba once jokingly told me that she had
heard some Rakshasi mothers scare their naughty children saying, ‘There
Bheema comes!’ The very name of Bheema would apparently cause her
relatives some discomfort even many years after their marriage!
 Had we not extracted the promise from the obliged Brahmin that the
killer of Bakasura would not be exposed, living at Ekachakra would have
been difficult for us. There was a frenzied pursuit in the city to find out who
killed the Rakshasa and saved the city from its curse. We started planning to
leave the place as we could not afford to be the toast of the city at that time.
One day, a guest came to the Brahmin’s place. He was a prolific traveller
and well informed about events happening around the country. He informed
us about the forthcoming swayamvara of the daughter of Drupada, king of
Panchala.
It interested us. The daughter of Drupada had already become the most
talked about woman in the Aryavarta because of her extraordinary beauty,
intellect and a strange legend about her birth that she had been born out of
sacred fire along with her twin brother, Dhrishtadyumna, in order to avenge
their father’s humiliation at the hands of Drona.
My glance quickly swept through the faces of my brothers. The faint
redness that appeared on their faces did not evade my notice. The mere
mention of Draupadi’s name evidently made their hearts beat faster! Our
suppressed excitement sent me the signal that we had already broken into
that exhilarating phase of our lives. Why, our Bheema had already been
married with a son—a fact we had almost forgotten! What could be a better
testimony of our adulthood!
‘Do you want to go there?’ Mother suddenly asked us. We were not even
aware when we nodded in the affirmative.
Panchala was calling us. I understood what Vyasdeva the prophet had
meant by saying that we would have to return there soon.

-3-
Arjuna’s amazing marksmanship would win him— and us as well—
Draupadi.
Lord Shiva’s boon came true. He granted Draupadi what she had asked
from him in her previous birth, though not exactly in the way she could
like! The poor girl had apparently wanted an ideal husband with five special
qualities rolled into him but what she got instead was a band of five
husbands—each embodying one of those five qualities!
 The peculiar marriage would be cruelly manoeuvered. Let alone the
emotional side, the arrangement was practically no less vexatious either.
There was an angle of ethics too. My conversation with Drupada and
Dhrishtadyumna on the matter was one of the most embarrassing moments
of my life.
Drupada: ‘Today is an auspicious day. I would like Arjuna to marry my
daughter today itself. What do you think?’
I (scratching my head and clearing my throat): ‘Er…I will have to marry
her…too!’
Drupada (shocked but recovering, gracefully): ‘Okay…well…fine!…
Then you take her. No problem.’
I (mumbling): ‘Not only I…hmm…I mean… er…she will be the
common wife to all of us as our mother wishes!’
Drupada (flying into a rage): ‘What! You…! (trying to calm down) Have
you taken leave of your senses? I heard you are Lord Dharma manifest! Is
this what you call dharma ? How could you even think of humiliating my
daughter like this?’
I: ‘Forgive me King. No way can I deign to insult your daughter. A
divine intention has found expression through our mother’s inadvertent
comment. We five brothers are conjoint personalities with a common soul.
We are avowed to share everything—everything!’
Drupada (snarling): ‘Is my daughter a piece of sweetmeat to be divided
into five brothers to please them alike?’
Dhrishtadyumna: ‘Moreover, which virtuous elder brother can ever think
of bedding his junior’s wife?’
Dhrishtadyumna’s comment crashed on my face like a savage slap. I saw
darkness all around for a moment. Then I felt with some desperation that I
must not take it lying down for that would have most certainly made me
look like a lustful humbug. With a steely firmness, I said, ‘Dharma is
sometimes too nuanced to understand properly, Prince Dhrishtadyumna!
When faced with confusion, obeying elders can take you closest to dharma
. Jatila, a noble woman of yesteryears, was married to seven great savants.
It finds mention in the Puranas ; you can check it. Barkshi, the virtuous
daughter of a sage, had ten husbands—with honourable sanction of the
society. You have to judge things against the perspective it deserves.’
 Though Dhrishtadyumna was usually a decent guy, he was now little
carried away by anxiety. He had not meant to hurt me. However, my reply
did not evidently satisfy either him or his father. We would have continued
bandying words endlessly had I not found support from the person who
always and everywhere had the last word—Vyasadeva.
Vyasa’s entry to the scene saved me from further blushes.
‘Yudhisthira is right, King Drupada. You perhaps do not know who these
five boys actually are. They are all gods, manifest in human forms. Your
daughter is Goddess Laxmi reborn and is destined to be espoused by these
five gods bonded with a unique ego. Let it happen King, even if it appears
odd. Do not worry about the society around you. Even the society needs to
grow up with time. It will get a shock first, and then will learn to respect it.
The posterity will always remember this marriage as a noble union.’
Drupada’s reaction was completely changed, so was Dhrishtadyumna’s.
They touched Vyasa’s feet with infinite respect and started looking elated at
the prospect of getting five bright, mighty sons-in-law instead of only one!
My chest puffed up too. Vyasa’s words expelled the mist of discomfiture
from my mind at least temporarily.

-4-
Our marriage took place with grand éclat. There was no need for us to live
in anonymity away from Hastinapura any longer.
Our visit to Panchala did us good in more than one way. We came out of
the kingdom of Drupada much stronger, beaming with a new confidence.
Not only had we plucked away the jewel amongst women to adorn our
lives, we now had the support of the formidable Panchalas. Duryodhana
now would have to think twice before taking any drastic step to harm us.
But the greatest strength that we found at Panchala was neither the
illustrious Draupadi, nor her mighty father.
We discovered our Krishna there. Our god met us for the first time at
Kampilya—the capital city of Panchala kingdom where Draupadi’s
swayamvara was being held. Krishna and Balarama attended the ceremony
as Draupadi’s family friends, not as competitors. Krishna happened to be
our first cousin (our mother was his paternal aunt). His divinity was already
well known and his miraculous feats had already become an oral tradition
although he was just Arjuna’s age, a couple of years younger to me! I had
already given myself to him. My brothers too had submitted to his charm
long before we met him first at the royal court of Drupada during the ritual
of swayamvara . Right from the word go, Krishna too revealed his love for
us with surprising readiness. I had not in fact expected that he would be so
amiable and accessible, in spite of his fame and semi-divine stature. It
seemed to me that he too had heard something positive about us. Krishna
and Balarama made us feel happier and stronger by approving our unique
marriage with Draupadi.
A pleasant surprise was waiting for us. Uncle Vidura suddenly arrived at
Kampilya with a royal entourage in order to take us to Hastinapura!
As good and bad times come and go in a cycle, we seemed to have
meanwhile become eligible for some happiness after a series of bitter, grim
experiences too early in our lives.
‘Your Hastinapura awaits you my sons. Your kingdom is dying to receive
you and kulbadhu Draupadi. Please oblige me by coming with us.’ Vidura’s
words sounded like music. Gladly, we returned to Hastinapura with him.
In spite of the grand welcome and the most cordial reception of
Draupadi, we entered the city with a studied arrogance this time. My
humility was little adulterated now. And I made it so, consciously. These
bloody people had wanted to ruin us! This was the kingdom my father had
once ruled over and today, we were made to feel unwanted here! That the
blind King Dhritarashtra had failed to provide security to us was less
disturbing than his dismal reluctance to put up at least a sincere effort to
make us feel secure there.
Dhritarashtra’s reaction on seeing us was too funny to describe! A part of
his face could manage to pretend some happiness with the remaining part
completely unable to do so, making the resultant expression utterly
ludicrous. Really! Our good luck must have been too bitter for him to
swallow and good acting was not something Dhritarashtra was best known
for.
Duryodhana and his henchmen were cautiously avoiding us. Whenever
he had to interact with us, he struggled to remain composed. He had lost
weight, developed dark circles around his eyes and became absentminded.
Sahadeva, who had a habit of burning the midnight oil, saw him loiter on
the roof of his palace at the wee hours many times. Shakuni looked sullen,
though somehow managed to hold on to his devilish smile. Duhshasana
became duller and grimmer. I suspected that he took to some addiction
which was evidently blunting whatever sparse intellect he had. I did not see
Karna much in these days. He preferred to stay at his kingdom Anga most
of the time, away from Hastinapura. That was wise of him. He could not
have tolerated to see us back in the reckoning, that too with a certain
Draupadi by our side!
It was clear to even a minor that such unhappy cohabitation could not
have been a long term settlement. Pitamaha Bheeshma and Vidura were
putting pressure on Dhritarashtra to anoint me as the official heir to the
throne without any further delay because I was already in my mid-twenties.
Dhritarashtra was dilly-dallying as usual. Duryodhana and Shakuni always
kept him heavily guarded, disallowing Pitamaha to hold one-to-one
discussions with Dhritarashtra on the matter. Behind Pitamaha ,
Duryodhana wanted to see himself as the official heir instead.
However, the most inevitable solution to the morass was the division of
the empire into two equal halves—an idea Pitamaha had always loathed.
He had given his everything to keep the kingdom together and now, right
under his nose, it was about to be broken into two.
Dhritarashtra summoned me one morning and extended a ‘magnanimous’
offer! Though it incensed my brothers, I was not much surprised. Rather I
was little peeved at the naivete of my brothers. How did they expect
anything really good from that blind king?
‘Son Yudhisthira, you and Duryodhana are the two eyes I never had.
Both of you are equally good and worthy. I have decided to divide the
kingdom equally between you two and be relieved of the weight of the
crown that is crushing my head.’ Dhritarshtra gave a pause and heaved a
histrionic sigh. Anybody knowing him less would have surely been floored
by his ‘genuine’ concern for us and the likeable ‘disinclination’ to authority
and power. But, unfortunately we, at least I, had known him a little too
much. I knew he was going to serve us another raw deal wrapped in a
beautiful gift pack!
That was why I did not get much shock when he revealed his plan to give
us away Khandavprastha province and retain Hastinapura for his own son.
 ‘Equal’ share indeed! Dhritarashtra kept his words in the sense that
Khandavprashtha and Hastinapura were almost equal in size. Only, this
Khandavprashtha happened to be a long-deserted, accursed land that had
not been reformed since the time of Vichitraveerya. Khandavprashtha was
named after a dense forest called ‘Khandav’ that occupied a major portion
of it. The place was almost uninhabitable as the land was craggy and
rugged. It was infested by a wide variety of animals, ranging from the
harmless to the ferocious. Only a group of aborigines lived there
permanently and some Mlechchha nomads used to camp around the edges
of the land time to time. As per Dhritarashtra’s plan, we would have to rule
over this godforsaken land!
My brothers were sulking, grunting, heaving noisy breaths, and gnashing
teeth! Dhritarashtra did not mind that as his plan was going to be successful
with more ease than he might have imagined.
Krishna’s presence made it easier for me to obscure my disgust. He
himself offered to accompany us to Khandavprastha. It was such a good
news that even the prospect of a potential banishment in Khandavprastha
ceased to bother us. Since then, he would never let us miss his company—
be it in trying or happy times.

-5-
Though Dhritarashtra’s proposal was not unexpected, his subsequent
demand was absolutely so. In fact, it was unsettling:
‘Though we can somehow bear the pain of parting with you, we cannot
simply let your mother Kunti leave Hastinapura! She will be staying here
with us with the full state honours of a queen that she was long ago and still
is.’
I could not readily understand this trick of the blind king. Why did he
want to separate our mother from us?
‘Simple, brother Yudhisthira. They want to keep her as a hostage to ward
off any possible attack from us in future.’ Sahadeva’s explanation was
brilliant and brutal. He was right, perhaps. But Kunti herself wanted to stay
back in Hastinapura for her own reasons. She said to me, ‘Your father’s
memory still hovers around in the air of this city. Please do not wean me
away from it. Another thing, King Dhritarashtra has inadvertently admitted
our right to Hastinapura by allowing me to stay here. My very presence will
remind him every moment that he is beholden to my husband for this
kingdom. Who knows, better senses may prevail on him someday!’
Though Kunti’s hope of better senses prevailing on him someday was too
impractical and Dhritarshtra’s assumed admission of our rights to
Hastinapura was not going to bring any change to our shares or fortune, we
could not force her away from the enemy city just because we simply had
no rights to pluck her away from Pandu’s memories. I had observed another
thing. Since our marriage, Kunti was subtly restricting her commands over
us. She was too classy to impose herself on the lives of her sons and
daughter-in-law. By choosing to stay back in Hastinapura, she liberally
allowed Draupadi an empty ground to build up her own empire. Kunti was
no ordinary mother-in-law to feel threatened by the emergence of a
daughter-in-law.
We, minus Kunti, set out for Khandavprastha on the heels of Krishna on
an auspicious occassion. Fortunately, we were accompanied by a large
retinue of citizens who preferred even a struggle under us to an easy
establishment under Duryodhana. These people obliged me no end. More
than being my first subjects, they were my astute colleagues who helped me
setting up an empire built more on truth, righteousness and love than on
brawn and intimidation. There were some accomplished engineers and
architects in them. Under Krishna’s guidance, they started building up a
new city. They started building up a new future.
There was no dearth of cheap and free labourers. We had befriended the
tribes settled there. They supplied numerous labourers required for the
construction works. In return, we had to give them a bit of formal weapon
training and good food.
Our city was fast taking shape. Well inside one year, once deserted
Khandavprastha became replete with stone buildings, monuments and
architectures. Soon there were hospitals, educational institutes, gymnasiums
and a big museum. I personally designed and planned the museum and
filled it with many priceless things of immense archival value.
Thus we turned a forlorn, deserted, ancient land into a modern,
formidable city beaming with prospects. Every single inhabitant of the city
—from the monarch to the rabble—contributed to the making of it in his
own way. People were happy. Meanwhile, many people from Hastinapura
had started coming to our kingdom smelling better prospects and of course,
more dignity. It fast became a land of good hope. It was a kingdom where
everybody was the king in his own right with a most respectful and
spontaneous submission to the official head of state that was me, as a matter
of fact!
One day, I was standing alone on the roof of our sprawling, towering
mansion which was still under construction. I was enjoying the panorama of
a nascent state, the emergence of a blossoming power literally under my
nose. I was thinking about Pandu, my late father. Had he been alive today,
nobody would have been happier than him.
A long shadow appeared from behind. I knew who it was. The wonderful
fragrance that filled the air could have come from nowhere other than
Krishna’s body. Still I turned back. It was difficult for me to refrain from
looking at his hypnotising face.
‘What are you thinking brother Yudhisthira? Remembering your father at
your time of glory?’
I laughed. It was no more surprising to me that he could read thoughts,
especially of people he knew well. ‘Yes, dear Krishna. He would have been
definitely happy to see this Khandavprastha of today, I am sure. What do
you think?’
‘Absolutely. But does not this new city deserve a more euphoric name
than an old, depressing moniker?’
‘What name do you suggest?’
‘What about “Indraprastha”? This place now really looks like the true
abode of Lord Indra by the touch of your magic wand!’
Indraprastha! The moment he uttered the name, a flock of pigeons took
off from the top of a turret overlooking us from atop a tower, seemingly
conveying their approval.
Indraprastha! Could there be any better name for my kingdom? But did
my city really promise that greatness? Was it a mere name, or an objective?
Was ‘Indraprastha’ actually a dream Krishna wanted us to make happen?
The thought was delightful. I spread out my right hand to hold Krishna’s.
He took my hand into his.
That moment I felt I was the mightiest being on this planet.
 6
The House of Mystique

-1-

M
kingdom would soon become a tourist attraction because of a
particular architectural wonder. That incredible piece of
construction was nothing other than the royal palace of
Indraprastha—our official residence! It was a masterpiece of the
illustrious Moy—the great Rakshasa architect. Moy was a builder par
excellence and his fame as an architect had already swept across all the
three worlds. The palace enhanced the reputation of Indraprastha a
hundredfold.
Krishna had asked Moy to build a palace suitable for us. It took Moy
little more than one year to complete his work. It was actually a
mindboggling erection—a gargantuan edifice heavily guarded by several
thousands of mighty kinkaras —located on what had been a vast expanse of
vacant land only one year back!
The speciality of the house was some lakes of various sizes. The water of
these lakes was clearer than even a child’s conscience. Numerous fake
water creatures and flowers were kept afloat on different layers of the water
using invisible props. These great ponds were cleverly bordered by crystal
plates which made it almost impossible to demarcate the water from the
crystal floor all around. We had to tread very carefully along the edges of
these lakes lest we take false steps right into the water. But the most
mysterious were the crystal walls of the hall. I still do not understand how
Moy could manage to create those. They were translucent. It was difficult
for any stranger to understand whether he was standing in front of a wall or
just an open side. The doors opened automatically and silently, often
leaving the person standing in front of it unaware that a real opening had
been created to let him walk through to other side! Sometimes I doubted
whether the walls at all existed. Perhaps they were never there and it might
be only an illusion giving a virtual feeling to ordinary beings that they were
being thwarted by a solid object.
The palace was like a living being to me. The very air of the house
always tried to convey a particular message to me which I failed to detect at
that time. Perhaps no one else had such weird feel about our famous
residence.
Now I know that the magical objects that decorated the house and the
clever illusions that relentlessly amused people were actually a suave
commentary on the theme of fleeting happiness of life. Perhaps I was then
too young to caution myself about the transience of material pleasure—the
most fundamental axiom of human life that the house demonstrated through
mystical suggestions. I, sadly, could not pre-empt a sudden change in
fortune caused by many poisonous breaths of jealousy. I became proud of
my possessions and achievements, and in came my fall close on the heels of
that pride.
That palace happened to be an appropriate showcase of our real calibre.
It spoke for us, demonstrating through its very existence what we achieved
and what we were capable of. The very uniqueness of our house, its
blinding décor, the esoteric touch of ineffability—everything seemed to be
announcing our speciality. It became too clear to all that the house and its
illustrious residents were just made for each other.
Duryodhana and his company were invited to Indraprastha. Inside our
house, Duryodhana—the proud prince of Hastinapura—was looking like a
crude simpleton suddenly thrown into a world of aristocracy, power and
affluence. His comic activities were giving an impression that he did not
belong to our class. He was repeatedly befooled by those funny optical
illusions created by Moy. First, he confidently stepped on the water of a
pond mistaking it as the crystal floor and fell into it! Even my servants
laughed before rushing in his aid. While changing wet clothes, Duryodhana
did not notice numerous flint mirrors all around him reflecting uncountable
images of the prince of Hastinapura in his undergarments! He feared to
even walk freely, unable to distinguish the floor from the water. That was
not all. He rammed straight into a transparent wall mistaking it for an open
portal and got injured. While he was smarting from the bruises, he leaned
against the opposite wall which turned out to be an opening. Poor
Duryodhana fell on the ground, amidst laughter from all around.
Our mysterious palace was like an alien land for him where he had no
clue to survive and was unqualified to exist in. How could Duryodhana
have digested that? Our other superiorities could have been challenged, our
other assets could have been made light of, but how could the chasm
between our class and Duryodhana’s, which he himself demonstrated
clearly through his bemused conducts, have been ignored?
I would be told later that a very distasteful taunt flew from the ladies’
quarter sneering at his foolish actions:
‘He seems to have inherited blindness from his old, blind father!’
Duryodhana believed the comment had come from Draupadi. Not only
did he believe it, he also ensured it be bruited about widely. But I knew very
well it could never have been Draupadi. Although she was never a shy
talker, she could not have stooped to such a vulgar low. That must have
been a maid or a sairindhri facetiously sniggering from inside the sorority
of aristocrat women. So sure I was of it that I never felt like asking
Draupadi whether she really had made the comment.
Duryodhana’s unbearable humiliation at my house, however inadvertent,
was not to be forgotten either by him or by anyone of his side.

-2-
Debarshi Narada, the celebrated rishi from heaven, once paid a surprise
visit to our place. He was accompanied by Parijaat, Raivata and Sumukh—
three much venerated saints. It was a matter of great honour for us to have
those noble beings as guests, uninvited at that. We did our best to give them
a fitting reception and treatment, followed by presenting lavish gifts. They
looked pleased.
In the afternoon, we sat circling around Narada and those three rishis in
our plush guest room, expecting to enrich ourselves with a solemn
discourse. Narada had a distinctive style of talking. His voice was low and
soft and he spoke with a casual drawl, creating an absorbing effect. He
started talking in his inimitable manner on what should be the ideal style of
governance.
But my mind got distracted when he mentioned he had met Pandu at the
assembly of Lord Dharma: ‘Dharma’s chamber is made of lustrous metals,
dazzling as the sun and one hundred yojanas wide with a length even
greater. There I met some great souls who had assumed human forms in
different times—Yayati, Nahusha, Puru, Dhruva, Bharata, Bhagirath, Rama-
Lakshmana, even your father Pandu.’
I loved to know that my two fathers—one official and the other
biological—are in the company of each other in a world far distant and
different from this one. Had Pandu, or Lord Dharma himself, sent me any
message through Narada?
‘Yes, he has.’ Narada said. ‘In fact, I was just about to convey you his
message. Your father Pandu has been greatly impressed by King
Harishchandra, the great king of the Treta yuga . He wants you to emulate
Harishchandra. Pandu has requested me to tell you that you should perform
the Rajasuya yajna now to add to your glory. I too feel so. You have both
power and loyalty and are perfectly fit for the job. You should go for it,
Yudhisthira.’
I felt a butterfly in my stomach! The Rajasuya yajna is a supreme ritual
performed by a sovereign king to announce himself as the undisputed
emperor—the paramount king on earth. The thought of performing the
ritual had never occurred to me just because I did not consider myself in
that distinguished rung of greatness. But Narada’s words suddenly seemed
to have bloated my stature a hundredfold—in my own eyes.
Debarshi Narada took leave. But his unexpected suggestion set a bee
humming in my mind. I discussed the matter with my brothers and
Draupadi. Their reaction was exactly what I had expected. They exploded
in a boisterous rapture. Draupadi did not say anything. She only rushed to
her worship room to seek blessings from her deities. I knew that was her
very own style of rejoicing, especially when the happiness was too
profound.
With an exuberant moonlight and a rollicking breeze, the wonderful
night too seemed to be laughing—perhaps at the prospect of my becoming
the Rajchakraborty (emperor)!
 But I needed to talk to Krishna first, with whose sanction I was ready to
go overboard even with closed eyes, before taking the final decision to
embark upon the daunting project.
‘Send a messenger to Dwarka immediately with an appeal requesting
Krishna to kindly honour Indraprastha with his noble presence.’
The tone of my instruction already sounded emperor-like although I was
yet to become one!
 7
The Wrath of God

-1-
‘

P
ardon me, brother Yudhisthira. But I don’t think you are in a position
now to perform the Rajasuya ritual.’
Krishna’s straight-faced reproach punctured the bubble of
euphoria. Frankly speaking, I had been almost sure of his consent and
was taken aback at his response. Bheema’s gruff voice rumbled from
behind, ‘But why, Keshava? Is not brother Yudhisthira already a strong
enough king?’
‘Of course he is one—and a very strong one, to be precise. I never meant
to imply he is less qualified by any standards. I only meant to say he is not
yet the strongest king in Bharatvarsha.’
Krishna paused, pushing himself deep into the gem-encrusted seat to
recline comfortably. We were waiting with bated breath for Krishna’s
proclamation—what was the most powerful kingdom in Bharatvarsha? Was
it Bahlika? Or Madra? Pragjyotisha, Vidarbha, Magadha, Chedi? Was it
Karna’s Anga rajya ? Any Mlechchha or Yavana state? Sindhu, Sauvira or
Kekaya? Saurashtra or Dasharna? Or Pandya, Mahishmati, Chola, Abanti?
Or was it simply Hastinapura—our bequest that fell into Duryodhana’s
hands?
Krishna was taking time. He was slowly nibbling at a purodash Draupadi
had served him a little while ago. But his silence was not deliberately meant
for teasing us. Rather, I observed a faint furrow between his brows. He
appeared pensive, if not worried.
 ‘Who is the strongest king, Krishna? He must be special enough to have
caused you worries!’ I asked softly.
Krishna came out of his thoughts.
‘You are right, brother. Indeed he is special. He is Jarasandha, the king of
Magadha.’
Jarasandha of Magadha! I was aware that Magadha was a formidable
kingdom and Jarasandha was a monstrous warrior. Though he was not our
enemy per se, I never made any effort to reach out to him either. However,
our interests never clashed, at least till now. Hearing his name from
Krishna’s mouth made me recognise Jarasandha as a potential threat. It was
nothing but my political naivety that I had not been wary of this
disconcerting personality before. Now I remembered that Jarasandha had a
long animosity towards Krishna also. They had fought between them
numerous bloody battles with no decisive outcome.
We pressed Krishna to tell us about this man. What aroused my curiosity
most was the fact that this Jarasandha had managed to survive this long
even after courting such a bitter enmity with Krishna. What could be a
better testimony of this man’s extraordinariness!
‘Jarasandha is easily the toughest opponent I have ever come across,’
Krishna remarked.
‘But what did you and Jarasandha wrangle over for?’ Sahadeva asked.
‘I did not have much to do about that, trust me brother!’ Krishna laughed.
‘He happened to be the father-in-law of Kamsa, my maternal uncle whom I
killed when I was a teenager. Kamsa’s death angered Jarasandha and since
then he has been on a mission to finish us off. Besides being a ferocious
warlord, he is also a shrewd politician to have been able to create a strong
confederacy around him.’
Jarasandha had made as many as seventeen expeditions to the Yadava
fiefdom at Mathura to teach Krishna and Balarama a lesson. There were
devastating battles, with great casualties on both sides. Though Krishna and
Balarama led the Yadavas to successfully defend Mathura, they could not
completely destroy Jarasandha’s massive army. Jarasandha was relentless.
After each unsuccessful campaign, he would return to his capital Girivraja
and prepare for another adventure with a new force, stronger and fiercer.
‘He is a real nuisance—at least as much as to make us feel scared of
him!’ Krishna remarked with a sigh.
 ‘Scared? You? I can’t imagine you being afraid of anyone!’ Bheema
exclaimed.
‘Fear is not necessarily a weakness. Fear is sometimes useful too. Do you
know what I was afraid of? Not of death or defeat. My innocent
countrymen were suffereing greatly. The prolonged warfare stalled all the
developments of Mathura. Its economy was in shambles. I saw a constant
pallor of dread on the innocent faces of little children. I saw mirth and joy
disappear fast from my land. I saw a spectre of doom haunt every single
household of Mathura. I was unable to tolerate this any further.’
‘What did you do then, Vasudeva?’ Arjuna spoke for the first time.
Krishna’s compelling account of Jarasandha was too gripping to allow us
any movement.
‘We had to shift from Mathura to Dwarka secretly. It was easier said than
done. Without Lord Vishwakarma’s help, it would not have been possible.
He had built the city of Dwarka in the mountainous terrain near Raivataka
hill in an astonishingly short time. Our men had abandoned the city of
Mathura alongwith all their movable belongings before the Magadha army
laid siege from the eastern frontier. Jarasandha and his troops crawled into
Mathura only to find a deserted city greeting them with an eerie emptiness.
Mathura was strategically inconvenient for us also as it was surrounded by
Jarasandha’s allies. Our decision to resettle at Dwarka proved to be a very
wise one. He never dared attack Dwarka. But still, we can ignore him only
to our own peril. With Jarasandha marauding around, just forget about your
Rajasuya yajna !’
I got rattled. Krishna had always been our bedrock of strength. Such
negativity was painfully unexpected from him. Jarasandha made successful
inroads into my psyche without waging any war.
‘I think we should drop the plan, then. What I can make out is that this
Jarasandha must be a hell of a warrior. I think we can do well without
drawing his evil eyes on us.’ Did I sound like a coward? But I only wanted
to circumvent unnecessary confrontation with an intimidating neighbour.
Was it an act of cowardice? My brothers scowled and glowered at me. Let
them. I should not risk their lives for my meaningless ambition.
‘But he has to be contained. Do you know this man has kept eighty-six
defeated kings in his prison and is waiting to make the tally one hundred
before slaughtering them like beasts! Such a villain must not be allowed to
flourish uninterrupted any longer.’
My brothers roared in unison. This Krishna appeared much more
familiar. I felt happy to notice Krishna’s personal priorities converge toward
our way to the top. From deep inside, something told me Jarasandha was
gone!

-2-
‘You wanted me here to discuss about the Rajasuya, right? I am here to
discuss war, instead,’ saying this, Krishna started loitering with hands
clasped behind. I knew this typical mood of him. He was in business!
‘Even Jarasandha has his weaknesses. We have already been able to get
rid of some of his major allies. Moreover, he has an exaggerated notion
about his own strength. We have to exploit that.’
Till now, I had only tried to win hearts. My ascension to the throne of
Indraprastha was completely bloodless. But could my further aspirations be
achieved without violence? How could one become an emperor and remain
one without killing countless people? I suddenly felt a bitter taste in my
mouth. That was the irony of our times! My obsession for peace might
some day find me bullied and maimed by many mad dogs about. I never
chose this life, rather I was chosen by it without being asked! But as long as
I could not renounce it, I must play the game the way it should be played.
Krishna was carefully observing my expressions. He perfectly read my
private struggle and said in a low voice, ‘I have devised a strategy to deal
with Jarasandha. And I promise, it will involve only a modicum of
bloodshed.’
It sounded so improbable that Bheema’s right hand holding a golden
chalice stopped short of reaching his mouth. Arjuna sat on the edges of his
seat while the twins exchanged glances. I stared at Krishna blankly.
‘It will be very difficult to defeat him in a full-scale war. Your army is
new and is still not equipped enough to face Jarasandha’s ferocious
soldiery. And, I think only Jarasandha has to be destroyed, not his army. He
can be killed in a wrestling bout.’
 Krishna revealed his plan in details. Bheema, Arjuna and Krishna would
visit Magadha disguised as young Brahmins. Their cover would ensure
smooth entry and movement in Magadha as Jarasandha was a famous
patron of Brahmins. They would ask for an audience of the king and
challenge him to a wrestling duel with any one of them. A conceited
Jarasandha would most certainly select Bheema as his opponent, because of
his size and physique. Bheema would then try to finish him in a bare-
handed contest.
The idea did not seem much encouraging to me. It sounded very risky.
Should they get intercepted by Jarasandha’s spies, they would most
certainly be executed. Moreover, Jarasandha might not be graceful enough
to accept the wrestling challenge; he might instead summon armed soldiers
to kill the weaponless trio. How could I live without my Arjuna, my
Bheema and my Krishna? I voiced my strong disagreement.
‘The intelligence mechanism in Magadha is very weak. Jarasandha’s
over-confidence is responsible for this. This is a big chink in his defence.
Moreover, I heard Jarasandha’s son is a dedicated follower of me and he is
fast gaining popularity among his countrymen. If I disclose my identity, he
may come in our support. Please have confidence in me.’ Krishna tried to
convince me.
The three brave youths took a solemn vow to return victorious and left
for Magadha leaving me terribly anxious.
They were away for close to one month. I cannot describe how I spent
those days. I could barely sleep and would insanely rush to any messenger
coming from the east.
I still remember that remarkable morning when a handsome youth,
mounted on a horse, was ushered in to my palace. The boy spoke in a
distinct Magadhi accent and handed me a written message. My hand
trembled to receive it.
That moment was a watershed in my life. The message turned out to be a
brief note from Krishna reporting Jarasandha’s death at the hands of our
mighty Bheemasen! I had to read the message umpteen times before
bringing myself to believe the news. After it sank in, I heaped lavish gifts
on the smiling messenger from Magadha and asked him to narrate what had
happened. The boy was evidently happy at the fall of his king. Jarasandha
was not loved by his subjects—he was only feared.
 In Magadha, everything had unfolded as per Krishna’s forethought.
Jarasandha, blind with arrogance, had taken the bait to his own doom. He
accepted the wrestling challenge and selected Bheema as his opponent, just
as Krishna had presumed.
The duel between Bheema and Jarasandha found a lasting place in
history in its own right. It became such a famous story that in spite of many
heavily censored versions of the event, children were well aware of the
gruesome details of the fight which their elders never wanted them to know.
It was a terribly violent duel and they fought for a fortnight—without any
break, showing amazing skills and strength, perfectly matching each other.
Finally, Bheema held Jarasandha’s legs and started stretching them wide
apart. So monstrous was Bheema’s pull that Jarasandha’s body vertically
split into two halves.
Jarasandha’s death shifted the entire power structure in the Aryavarta
with my Indraprastha at its obvious centre of gravity. The incarcerated
kings were freed from captivity and they submitted to my command most
gladly. Surprising was the reaction of Jarasandha’s son, Sahadeva—a
namesake of my youngest brother. He was mature enough not to bear us
any grudge. Sahadeva was a cultured and kind person much unlike his
boorish father and was a devotee of Krishna. We anointed him as the new
king of Magadha and found a strong ally in him.
But most importantly, my Rajasuya yajna was on—there was no one to
challenge me any more.

-3-
Post our conquest of Magadha, frenetic preparations for the Rajasuya began
in Indraprastha. The enthusiasm was phenomenal. My four brothers, each
with an army, shot off towards four sides of the country on military
campaigns to collect taxes from other kingdoms to finance the yajna .
I observed one change in myself. It did not bother me much this time that
the expeditions of my brothers were fraught with danger and would involve
extensive fighting and bloodshed. From a kind, benevolent head of state, I
was fast turning into an ambitious, brawny monarch, much less hesitant to
send my men to war, invade other states and take lives of many people. I
recognised the transition with some dejection.
Arjuna went towards the north, Bheema to the east, Sahadeva south and
Nakula to the west. Some states readily agreed to pay us taxes; many did
not and had to be defeated in battles. My mighty brothers won everywhere
comprehensively. They returned after several months, almost at the same
time, with a hell of a fortune collected either forcibly or amicably from all
over Bharatavarsha.
Vyasadeva greatly obliged us by agreeing to officiate the yajna as one of
the main priests. On his advice, we designated Rishi Susamya as the reciter
of sama hymns. Great sages like Yajnabalkya, Dhaumya and Paila were
among the other priests alongside Vyasadeva. What a celebrated line-up that
was!
We had a number of sprawling guest houses constructed anticipating a
huge number of visitors and invitees. It seemed that all celebrities and
eminent personalities from the entire Jambudweepa broke into my kingdom
to witness my Rajasuya yajna ! We had also made grandiose arrangements
for entertainment of our guests. Best musicians, dancers, comedians, actors,
artists were brought from all corners of the country. It was turning out to be
an absolutely head-spinning extravaganza. The earth had not witnessed for
ages an event of such splendour, sanctity or scale.
The smiles on the faces of Dhritarashtra, his sons, Shakuni and Karna
were ridiculously artificial. They were struggling hard to look happy.
Nevertheless, I decided to take them on board as well. Out of courtesy, I
distributed responsibilities among them to make them feel like insiders.
Though my brothers violently opposed the idea, Krishna supported me and
convinced my brothers, especially Bheema and Arjuna, that such a friendly
gesture might blunt the stings of their malices. Though it did not, I still
believe I did nothing wrong about that.
According to my instruction, Duhshasana was asked by Arjuna to
supervise the culinary department ensuring a gourmet arrangement for the
guests. Dhritarashtra was treated as one of our advisors alongside
Bheeshma, Drona and Kripa. Ashwatthama was looking after the Brahmin
guests. Karna and Jayadratha, on our request, were receiving invitees.
Duryodhana was given the responsibility of receiving the gifts and
donations and keeping records of them. The idea was Bheema’s who
wanted Duryodhana to burn with envy. Duryodhana indeed burnt with envy
seeing the colossal wealth presented to me as gift. I actually had wanted to
entrust Duryodhana with some other job and should not have taken
Bheema’s advice. Duryodhana would later crash into severe depression
caused by our prosperity. Despite my sincere efforts to befriend him by
treating him and his brothers as an extended family—exactly what they
actually were—I ended up arousing his contempt even more than ever.

-4-
Everything was going well until an unfortunate splatter of blood sullied the
sanctitude of the noble ritual.
Sullied, or glorified? The violence was caused by none but our Krishna
himself and it helped eliminate another wicked soul. Perhaps it was in
perfect consonance with the very spirit of the Rajasuya that the flame of
dharma finally shot up from the noble altar washed clean with evil blood.
We had heard many unbelievable stories of Krishna’s courage and
valour. He had killed Kamsa, sucked a demoness called Putana to death
while she tried to breastfeed him with poisonous nipples, tamed an
enormous water serpent called Kaliya and even danced on its hoods, lifted
the Govardhan hill with the help of a finger and killed a host of Rakshasas
—all during his childhood itself. We had already witnessed how Jarasandha
had to perish being unable to handle a wrathful Krishna’s wiles. We now
got to witness that intimidating side of him, hitherto unseen to us. We
watched with horror how a furious Krishna punished his adversary
ruthlessly, in a manner typical of a mighty, hotheaded Kshatriya.
It all started when Pitamaha Bheeshma proposed Krishna’s name as the
recipient of the offerings of the yajna . Traditionally, final offerings of the
Rajasuya were presented to the noblest of guests as a mark of homage.
‘Krishna amongst us is like the sun illuminating a dark world, and the
wind bringing life to an airless space. This grand ceremony can honour
itself by offering Krishna a worthy worship.’ Bheeshma’s solemn
announcement, quite expectedly, was followed by a spontaneous cheer
rising from the assembly of the kings. But to our utter surprise, we heard a
low murmur within one section of the guests that was clearly disapproving.
I could never have imagined that there could be any dissension or dispute
over the issue of paying tributes to Krishna. But there was. It became clear
to me once again how little I knew of the world around me!
A croaking voice crashed on my eardrums, finally:
‘Yudhisthira, it is a pity that you people could not find a suitable king out
of this stellar assemblage to offer the arghya (offerings). It is even more
shocking that you have chosen someone who is not even a king, only a
petty chieftain of a forsaken fief. Show me one good reason how this
Krishna can qualify for such an honour! And see who gave such brilliant
idea to you—Bheeshma, an ancient senile old man!’
A deathly silence descended in the hall following this barbaric outburst
of Shishupal, the king of Chedi. That someone could ever have displayed
such uncouth disrespect to Bheeshma and Krishna was completely beyond
our imagination. We stood frozen. But my ears were still not impaired, for I
clearly heard Shishupal’s next round of ranting— directly addressing
Krishna this time: ‘Krishna you should have at least shown some class by
refusing the honour these fools offered to you, for you yourself must know
how undeserving you are! Instead, you behaved like a greedy dog stealthily
tasting the butter and licking lips contented. This fool Yudhisthira, that
imbecile old Bheeshma and you, the ever pathetic Krishna—just be
damned! Yuck…thoooh!’ The king of Chedi spat out a blob of spittle
towards the sacred altar!
I shuddered at the insult. Pitamaha Bheeshma, trembling with anger, had
stood up from his seat. His eyes were bloodshot. But he still did not lose
control on himself. Krishna was as calm as ever. Even his hypnotic smile
was intact though his eyes were shut. From the corner of an eye, I looked at
Bheema. I was most worried about him. I saw Arjuna and Nakula hold him
tight, refraining him from pouncing on Shishupal.
Shishupal waved at the kings in a gesture to leave the place. A sizeable
section of guests rose to its feet and started following Shishupal who was
pacing towards the exit.
I was looking vacantly at the mini exodus. I was actually looking at the
evil underbelly of human civilisation—the dark face of reality to which
Krishna was an anathema. I immediately identified that cross-section as my
enemy. My jaws stiffened. But with a slight movement of his lotus eyes,
Krishna beckoned me to try placating them. Controlling my anger with as
much difficulty as guzzling a seething drink, I had to rush to that scoundrel
Shishupal and request him not to create an ugly scene. But I could not help
giving him a piece of my mind that his behaviour had been just obnoxious.
Shishupal ignored me and kept walking in a huff. But Sahadeva’s bellicose
words stopped him, ‘Here I worship the supreme Krishna—attention
everybody! If anybody has any problem, I place my foot on his head! Tell
me—tell me who does not want to see Krishna honoured. Come forward
and be killed!’
Sahadeva really lifted and showed his right leg to Shishupal and his
followers, making them stop. Then Sahadeva started offering prayers to
Krishna right under their noses. Shishupal roared in anger and instigated
others to teach us a lesson.
Seeing me nervous, Pitamaha said in an effort to soothe me, ‘Don’t be
afraid of these street dogs who dare bark at a sleeping lion. This nitwit
Shishupal is inviting great trouble for himself and for the kings supporting
him.’
Shishupal turned to Pitamaha Bheeshma and affronted him with the
filthiest of abuses. He even called Pitamaha a eunuch with an uncouth
allusion to his noble oath of celibacy!
I was sure Shishupal would not survive the day. He should not have,
either. It only remained to be seen how he would get his due punishment.
Destiny had scripted his death in Krishna’s hand. Profaning Bheeshma like
that, Shishupal now turned to his main target, Krishna—only to hasten own
final moment. He tried to trivialise Krishna’s every single act of greatness
with nauseating contempt. According to him, Putana the demoness who had
been killed by an infant Krishna was a ‘poor, helpless woman’, the
Govardhan hill Krishna had famously held on his fingertip was but ‘a small
anthill’ and the terrible Ashwasura (the horse-monster) and Brishavasura
(the ox-monster) Krishna had slain were ‘innocent, harmless animals’! That
was not all. Shishupal believed Krishna’s killing of Kamsa the tyrant was an
act of ‘treachery’ and that of Jarasandha ‘devious’!
I sincerely felt such an evil being deserved pity much more than hatred.
He was as cursed as a blind man who never got to see this beautiful world,
as forlorn as a deaf person who never heard any good music, as pathetic as
a destitute who only got to sniff good food and never tasted it. Those
awesome feats of Krishna generated repugnance instead of veneration in
Shishupal’s crippled mind as a misshapen mirror returns ugly reflection of a
handsome face. I found this Shishupal poor, wretched and tragic.
Krishna warned him for the last time but he was in no mood to relent.
Instead, Shishupal unsheathed his sword and rushed towards Krishna to
finish him off! There was no one between them. But Krishna was still
standing akimbo with all the time in the world! He was smiling indulgently
as if a child was running towards him to get a loving lift. We shouted our
hearts out to caution Krishna. Bheema and Arjuna ran towards Shishupal to
hold him back. But before they reached him, he had almost reached Krishna
with his sword up.
Then there was a blinding flash. Was it caused by the swing of
Shishupal’s sword?
No. It was caused by the whirl of the Sudarshana chakra —the favourite
weapon of Krishna. I could not see when it appeared in Krishna’s hand and
when it got released, as only moments back I had seen Krishna bare
handed!
The dentate disc birled through air at a lightning speed, went through
Shishupal’s throat and returned to sit easy on Krishna’s erected index finger
once again. All these things happened during a single wink of an eye!
Shishupal’s severed head tumbled down from the trunk little hesitantly,
as if it was reluctant to part with the body, and rolled towards Krishna’s
feet. Thereupon his headless body crashed on the floor with a thud.
For some moments there was absolutely no sound in the hall which had
in it several thousands of people. The lethal discus, finishing his job,
disappeared into thin air. Then another dazzling flash startled all.
This flash was entirely different in nature. It was a brilliant glow—an
exquisite stream of light. It emitted from Shishupal’s dead body and
approached towards Krishna slowly. Would it harm our Krishna? We
watched with our hearts pounding violently. The light touched his feet
gently and disappeared into his body surprising me infinitely.
Was Shishupal a part of Krishna himself? Then why did it go against
him, that too so venomously? While Shishupal had been lashing his tongue
at Krishna, I heard Krishna count, ‘ninety-six…ninetyseven…ninety-
eight… .’ After killing Shishupal, Krishna explained with a glint in eyes
that he had apparently been bound by his own word to pardon as many as
one hundred crimes of Shishupal! Initially it made no sense to me. But later,
I managed to see through what was but a metaphor for a deeper dimension
of existence.
While Jarasandha had been a political enemy of Krishna, Shishupal was
a very private threat and probably, a more disturbing one. I perceived him
as the counter-ego of Krishna, flourishing with a semi-conscious indulgence
of Krishna himself. Through ugly interpretations, Shishupal was making
him aware that the greatness of his achievements might not have been
absolute—something Krishna himself had probably doubted, just as
extraordinary people typically examine and question their own successes in
private. Krishna needed such a dialectic challenge—more than a political or
military opposition—to crush it underfoot and emerge a real victor in his
own eyes. Krishna needed to unburden himself of his dark insecurities
symbolised by Shishupal and found a stage as big as the occasion of my
Rajasuya ritual to do so. He had slain a number of enemies before but the
effect Shishupal’s public assassination created was phenomenal. It led the
legend of Krishna to find a firmer and wider base. Krishna himself emerged
more powerful than ever before, doing away with that insecure part of his
own existence.
Shishupal’s last rights were hurriedly conducted and his son, the sweet
and charming Dhrishtaketu, was anointed by Krishna as the next king of
Chedi. Shishupal was soon forgotten—at least nobody dared take his name
in front of us or question our actions. Our intimacy with Krishna had lent
that aura of invincibility to our glory.
My Rajasuya yajna was concluded in grand style. I became the king of
kings—the emperor. But I was still underqualified to become ‘dharmaraj’ .
Sadly, I was still holding on to my too simplistic notion of dharma that
often bordered on a fanciful idealism. Though I was widely being billed as
the future of Bharatavarsha; actually I was still not mature enough to handle
the success.
 8
The Dice of Destiny

-1-

O
n one fateful morning, the dice of destiny rolled on a board of pasha
to prove to be my nemesis, inflicting on me the bitterest injury I ever
received. It was one memory which never ceases to haunt me. It is
still as fresh as it happened just yesterday, though almost five
decades have elapsed since the incident. I still wish I could have relived that
particular day with only a little impurity or, in other words, common sense!
Though I was pitted against Shakuni the fraudster, my real enemy was
myself. I failed to bend my stubborn straightness and crashed to an
ignominious humiliation. That was easily the worst day of my life.
The day had started rather pleasantly with a surprise visit of Uncle
Vidura. Although his arrival made us ecstatic as usual, his smile appeared
troubled. Did he bring any bad news?
‘King Dhritarashtra has sent for you.’ Vidura’s words were too curt to
sound like an invitation. We looked on without reacting, sensing he had
more to say than this much.
‘He wants you to visit Hastinapura to spend some quality time there
alongwith your “dear” cousins. He has invited you. He wants to play a good
host and wants to entertain you in his kingdom.’
‘But that sounds good, doesn’t it, Uncle Vidura?’ I had to ask because
Vidura’s expression did not apparently synchronise with the message he just
conveyed.
‘I hope it does,’ Vidura said grimly. ‘I can’t trust Dhritarashtra and his
sons. I think you too should not be much impressed with their sudden show
of cordiality. What is more…’ Vidura gave a ponderous pause before
continuing, ‘They will entreat you to play pasha games with them.’
‘Pasha games?’ We five brothers cried in unison, with almost the same
degree of astonishment. Uncle Dhritarashtra wanted us to gamble in front of
him? Wasn’t it too vulgar an idea to gamble in front of respected elders of
the family? True, we often used to play such petty dice games in a close
circle but it sounded too improper to digest that we would bet and win or
lose stakes right under the noses of Dhritarashtra, Pitamaha , Acharya ,
Kripa, Vidura and other elders. What was cooking in Hastinapura?
‘What do you suggest, Uncle Vidura?’ Sahadeva asked.
‘I was totally against it. I know gambling always spawns disputes. But
Dhritarasthra assured he would not let anything untoward happen. Now,
you do whatever you deem appropriate,’ Vidura evidently would prefer a
refusal from us.
‘I am not too excited with the idea either, Uncle Vidura. But we should
not refuse King Dhritarashtra either. Should we?’ I asked him. Vidura
shrugged hopelessly, adding to my confusion.
We accepted the ‘invitation’. We took the ‘bait’, rather.
At Hastinapura, there were ostentatious arrangements to receive us. The
daughters-in-law of Dhritarashtra were standing queued up to give a
rousing welcome to Draupadi, though I did not fail to observe on their faces
shades of jealousy that our wife’s aura helped cause. However, I found it
quite natural. She had something in her that would set women ablaze with
envy and men with desire.
Dhritarashtra and his sons behaved quite gracefully, almost to the extent
of making me feel ashamed of my suspicion. Even Duryodhana was cordial
and even humorous at times! It seemed like a good family reunion. I spent
the night in unmixed happiness—something I would never have in my life
again—never. And I mean it.
Next morning, when we entered the assembly of Dhritarashtra amidst
great fanfare, I noticed an elaborate arrangement for pasha games on a
marble rostrum at the centre of the hall. I saw Pitamaha Bheeshma, Drona,
Kripa, Vidura all present at the assembly, sulking though. Dhritarashtra was
seated on his throne with a smile that though appeared disarming at that
time, it was actually the smirk of a hungry predator who found his prey
completely trapped and within his reach! Duryodhana, a few of his brothers,
Shakuni and Karna were sitting on one side of the pedestal. In front of them
was kept a fancy pasha board.
After exchange of courtesies, King Dhritarashtra formally asked us to
start the game. My opponent would be Shakuni though Duryodhana would
do the betting. I had never heard of anybody gamble with someone else’s
property!
‘So, should we start?’ Uncle Shakuni asked, with an evident impatience.
‘I do not refuse any challenge offered to me. That is against my principle.
But Uncle Shakuni, I would expect you to play fair and not to resort to
deceptions.’
Today, it sounds so ridiculously juvenile to my own ears! How could I
have expected Shakuni not to cheat? Even a child in Hastinapura was aware
of his notoriety for cheating in gambling games. Moreover, what was
deception in a game of pasha ? I did not have any idea about that. I only
knew that cheating was quite common in pasha games. Our Shakuni was a
wizard on a board of pasha and his mastery was synonymous with his
deviousness. His retort to my call for fairness was too cryptic for me to
understand at that moment: ‘How do you define deception, O noble King
Yudhisthira? In pasha games, prevails the smart guy who can count very
quickly and can predict correctly what his thrown dices are going to show
up.’
Now I know how cleverly he gave hint of the trick he was planning to
resort to. Much later, Maharshi Brihadashwa would make me understand
that in order to match his ‘call’ of numbers prior to casting dices, Shakuni
had used nifty sleight of hands to replace already thrown dice or dices with
those with the required numbers. Shakuni was a genius. It takes nothing less
than that to perform such tricks regularly, with so many pairs of eyes glued
to his notorious hands. Nothing less than incredible was his confidence, too.
Every time he would cast his dices, he declared, ‘Here I win again!’ His
confidence lay in his quick fingers, not in his luck most obviously.
I knew very well that a contest with Shakuni could be disastrous. Still, I
could not put my foot down lest my much-admired probity be made light
of. If talking ethics to Shakuni was foolish of me, expecting the same from
him was just insane. I did not understand that Shakuni’s ethics lay in his
deception itself. He had already philosophised his deviousness to invent an
euphemistic interpretation of the same and of course, a justification thereof.
 Was this virtue that could turn one into such a worthless wimp called
truthfulness? In the process of chasing a vain mirage of dharma , I made
myself so weak that I could not refuse to participate in such an unequal and
improper contest. Duryodhana and his team knew perfectly well that my
actual weakness lay in my inane self-obsession. Just because I could not
risk my iconic stature, I succumbed to their ploy and ended up losing
everything I had—everything, in the most profound sense of the word.
What followed next would be bruited down from generation to
generation by words of mouth to become an unhappy legend in its own
right.
My first bet was the priceless gemstone in my crown against which
Duryodhana staked a lot of ornaments of equal value. Shakuni was actually
playing on behalf of Duryodhana, which was clearly against the rule of the
game but I was too generous to allow that, only to my peril.
I threw my dice first. Then Shakuni cast his, with a peculiar flip of
fingers. His dice, made of ivory with golden linings, landed on the dice-
board, rolled along the corner of the board, then stopped. We saw that the
dice showed exactly the number Shakuni had ‘called’ to win the first bout.
‘I have won this time King Yudhisthira, as you see! Now, what next?’
I would hear the same thing from Shakuni many times that day. He was
announcing his win each time quite matter-of-factly with a caustic emphasis
on ‘King’, cruelly reminding me that I would soon cease to be one, and an
obscene ecstasy was dripping from his each word. His every win was being
cheered by Duryodhana, his brothers and Karna with boisterous ovation.
Soon I lost a considerable portion of my wealth to them.
Dhritarashtra was wearing a kingly composure at the beginning. But with
his son winning away everything I was ready to stake, his happiness started
to show up. Our priceless uncle forgot that it was him who was blind, not
the other people present in the court who were witnessing his vulgar
reaction with wide-eyed astonishment. But Dhritarashtra was in no mood to
care.
Uncle Vidura’s was the first sane voice that was heard denouncing the
organised rascality. Quite sensibly, Vidura did not choose to talk to
Duryodhana or Shakuni; instead he addressed Dhritarashtra directly. ‘Your
Majesty, I know very well that my words will be as distasteful to you as
medicines are to a dying man. But don’t forget that your adorable son—this
Duryodhana—is destined to ruin the entire house; and he is doing
everything right to bring that doom upon all of us! You yourself are very
pleased now to see your son win, but I foresee that this obscene win is
going to cause macabre devastation. Look at these formidable Pandavas.
They have thus far kept themselves restrained but don’t take it for their
weakness. That Yudhisthira is capable of burning us down with his wrath,
that Bheema and Arjuna can decimate your famous army at will anytime;
those twins (Nakula and Sahadeva) can rip open your cover of security with
their famous swords—O King, please don’t test their patience further!’
Vidura’s eloquence spurred the likes of Pitamaha Bheeshma, Drona and
Kripa too to jerk out of their stupor. The events were turning out to be so
obnoxious, so beyond their dignity that the three wise old men had been
stupefied into silence until Vidura knocked on the doors of their
consciousness.
Dhritarashtra too became sensible for a moment and tried to check
Duryodhana. Duryodhana, as usual, had no time or intent to pay heed to his
father. He unleashed a venomous tirade against Vidura: ‘Uncle, please save
your opinion till it is asked for. You are not our master. I am guided by the
decree of one supreme almighty who controls an embryo in its mother’s
womb. I flow like a natural stream of water only following the diktat of that
ultimate being, so don’t you ever try to guide me. You are actually a
renegade and a Pandava agent in our midst! You better be off.’
Vidura shut up, but not due to the scathing insult of Duryodhana. He had
become used to it. In fact, almost everyone close to Duryodhana, excluding
his mother Gandhari, had to bear his mindless assault time and again.
Vidura was no exception but still he refrained from saying anything else
just because it was useless.
Meanwhile, I heard Shakuni say, ‘You have already lost quite a fortune to
us, King Yudhisthira. Do you have anything left to continue with, or should
we stop?’
My brothers still think that it was an opportunity for us to break away
from the tightening noose around our neck. But I think otherwise. Shakuni
was not so stupid to give us any chance. He had said that with an
unbearable derision that speared my already wounded ego further, making
me stay put to the game till a grotesque finish—much more grotesque than
a stable mind could have imagined.
 Just to show the world that I still had much more to lose, I let the game
continue. I capitulated meekly and let myself play in Shakuni’s hands, in
spite of my brothers’ repeated warnings. Just after three more bouts, I lost
my entire kingdom, wealth, ornaments—everything. I tried to console
myself thinking that a brief habit of owning a kingdom should not bring in
much change in my life! The jubilant cheers of Dhritarashtra’s sons and
Karna were ostensibly heard from even a great distance. I would later get to
know that a good crowd gathered outside the palace attracted by the noise.
Shakuni wore that loathsome smirk all along on his face—which would
soon expand into a lecherous grin at the climax.
‘I take the liberty now to put Nakula, my stepbrother, as my next bet.’
There was a pin-drop silence in the courtroom. That was something even
Duryodhana and Shakuni had not expected perhaps. I still remember how
they exchanged quick glances between themselves and how Uncle Vidura
removed his coronet to clamp his graying hairs with two fists in unbearable
despair. I closed my eyes, but could not do the same to my ears. I heard the
thud of Shakuni’s dice on the board.
Nakula was lost! The son of Mother Madri became a slave to
Duryodhana, thanks to my ridiculous tryst with dharma .
But there was no stopping me now! Shakuni would not have much to do
from now onwards. It was my destiny that was shoving me to fall free into a
bottomless depth.
I lost my Sahadeva at the next round.
‘Well done, O the righteous King Yudhisthira! That’s a rather smart way
to get rid of your stepbrothers. Good of you! Shall we stop the game now?
After all you are not going to risk your own siblings, I suppose? They must
be more precious to you than those stepbrothers, no?’
I felt like spitting on the leering face of that damned scoundrel from
Gandhara. His sinful words seemed to have poured a canful of obnoxious
maggots into my ears giving me an ugly sensation. How could a human be
so mean! I trembled with a feverish hatred and did not even deign to look at
his face that stared at me from the other side of the pasha board.
‘I do not discriminate between the sons of Mother Kunti and Mother
Madri. Are you trying to drive a wedge between us?’ I had reduced myself
to such a pathetic state that my impartiality and love for my stepbrothers
had to be proclaimed clearly before an assembly! Shakuni was not only
playing games on the board; he was also playing with my thoughts and even
controlling my reactions. He was clearly winning both. In order to prove
my impartiality, I staked Arjuna and Bheema in succession and lost them
too.
Before Shakuni could say anything, I offered myself on the wager, which
was but inevitable. There were lamentations all around, disallowing me to
hear the sound of Shakuni’s infallible dice that was pompously rolling on
the board. I—the eldest Pandava , the son of Lord Dharma—became a
slave to Duryodhana! For a passing moment, I felt relieved as I became free
from all terrestrial burdens. I was even free from the burden of liberty as I
ceased to own myself. It was a paradox surely that I got to taste a strange
freedom on becoming a slave!
‘Hey you, Yudhisthira the slave! How dare you wear a crown in front of
your master?’ thundered Duryodhana. With an arrogant twirl of his right
hand, he instructed me to remove my crown and place it at his feet. I took
off my magnificent headgear immediately, which sat heavily on my already
lowered head and placed it gently at Duryodhana’s feet. I heard a crackling
sound from nearby. I knew what made that sound. Bheema was gnashing
his teeth. But my fatigued mind was fast becoming bereft of sensibilities.
‘Are you sure you have lost everything, Yudhisthira? (Shakuni did not
address me as king this time!) It is a pity that you had to stake and lose your
own self while you still had your common wife, Draupadi, to carry on with
the game.’
I heard a loud hiss in the hall. I still don’t know who or what caused that
sound.
‘You are right, in fact too right, to be ignored! Here I place my next, and
my ultimate bet, which is nothing—I mean, none other than our common
wife, the jewel of all womenfolk, our most prized possession—Draupadi!’ I
responded to the impish suggestion of Shakuni with such readiness that it
astounded my own self. Had I been waiting for that? Did I want to relieve
myself of my most precious possession that I actually never possessed? Did
I also stake and lose our kingdom just because my brothers had won that for
me? Did I start to feel fatigued of living off my brothers’ achievements?
Did I subconsciously try to stamp my undisputed authority on my
possessions simply by squandering them away?
 The developments caused a commotion inside the court. The veterans
and seniors were cursing their own fates for having lived this long to
witness such a day.
Shakuni’s dice hit the board with a thud and rolled slowly, too slowly—
as if playing with Draupadi’s fate—before stopping finally, delivering the
verdict.
‘Have we won her? Have we really won her?’ Dhritarashtra became half-
raised from his royal seat in excitement. His meanness was not unexpected,
but it is simply beyond my ability to describe how obscene the exclamation
sounded at that moment! Our uncle not only laid bare his greed for our
property, he exposed his avarice for our woman as well! And this man was
the sibling of our late father! We would never pardon him for that heinous
query—never! Many years after, when that forlorn old man would be
reduced to a wretched object of pity, we—especially Bheema—could still
not be able to forget that indecent question.

-2-
Since that point of time I started slipping into a limbo of suspended
consciousness. That was a new experience for me, probably caused by the
unimaginable psychological stress. It seemed as if I ceased to be myself—I
ceased to be Yudhisthira, precisely. Interestingly, that peculiar estrangement
coincided with my becoming a slave. In effect, it was I who became a slave,
not Yudhisthira. An invisible sword had split up my persona into two halves
— one being lugged around by an ordinary man like me , the other by
Yudhisthira, the Dharmaputra! I could not recognise the characters present
in the assembly; even less could I understand the proper context of the
events—as if I abruptly started watching a show from midway. I heard
some strange comments and saw some queer actions, but could no longer fit
them into a logical chain to realise exactly what was happening inside that
royal assembly hall. Everything, living and non-living, was unfamiliar,
unrecognisable to me. Perhaps Yudhisthira knew them!
I saw one cruel looking man drag a beautiful woman into the court
holding her by hair. The woman resisted desperately, but the man was even
more desperate. The people inside the court were behaving crazily—some
cried, some cheered, some cursed, some laughed. Everybody was frantically
animated. I recognised none. The strange events, the peculiar reactions—all
seemed to have coalesced into a vague blur—it appeared as if I was seeing
things through a veil, half awake.
The woman appeared a royalty. Why on earth was such an evidently
aristocratic lady brought so indecently into a royal court where a woman
does not normally have any business? The woman’s angelic face was
smeared with tears and vermilion. That meant the woman was married.
Who was the husband of this lady? Where was that man? What sort of a
creature was he who could not come to his wife’s rescue? Was the woman
married to a eunuch?
Meanwhile, the woman had composed her dishevelled cloth and tried to
drape herself properly. With some difficulty, she stood up. I could not help
admiring the woman’s spirit. The woman kept her balance with the help of
a pillar and turned to an elegant looking old man seated on a silver throne.
The old man, who had been sitting like a marble staue, lowered his head to
avoid eye contact with the woman. I noticed that the fingers of the old man
were trying to dig into the handrests of his seat.
The woman addressed him with a trembling voice: ‘O venerable
Pitamaha , are you all dead? Has the conscience of the great Kuru house
become extinct? Such humiliation to a woman—of your own house at that
—took place right in front of so many great personalities; still nobody
bothered to intervene! Shame on you all, Sire!’
The old man’s face reddened. The lady fired her next salvo, ‘O Pitamaha
, does this man have any right to lose me in a game of dice? Did not this
man lose himself prior to losing me? Did not this man lose his rights to lose
me, as he had ceased to own me?’ The woman’s finger was pointed towards
me though her question was for the old man. I suddenly got involved in that
breathtaking drama unwittingly.
When we had been children, Bheema once playfully tonked me in the
head with a wooden club. I was hit so hard that I lost consciousness and
even after coming round, I could not remember anything for a brief period.
Today, the lady’s words crashed on my head like that club of Bheema,
though with a completely opposite impact. It brought back my memory!
My temporary amnesia was cured. I could now recognise the woman
unmistakably. No woman on this earth could have had that much venom for
me other than Draupadi. Simultaneously I could recognise myself, too. I
must be Yudhisthira, for no other man on this earth could have earned that
much hatred from her. I realised that even that scoundrel Duhshasana who
dragged her into the court could not humiliate her as much as I did. Her
livid question delved a dagger into my heart. How could I have lost her?
Had she ever been mine? Though she meant to say that my right over her as
a husband was forfeit as I myself had become a slave before wagering her,
no one knew better than me that I had not had any genuine right over her
even before I became a slave!
We were surprised to see Pitamaha Bheeshma hover for an answer to her
question. He hummed and hawed, and desperately tried to reconcile many
complicated issues the question addressed. He became busy examining the
validity of my conjugal right over Draupadi, her status as a free woman and
unclear rules of dice games. Bheeshma’s fanatic obsession for correctness
completely overlooked the immediate necessity to explode in
overwhelming protest involving a little less brainwork. I realise now that
Bheeshma’s case was much similar to mine. We both were wretchedly held
captive by an inert righteousness sadly ignoring the basic strands of
humanity. While Bheeshma should have landed a resounding slap on the
face of Duhshasana, he made himself busy with delicate nuances of justice.
Though Bheeshma had always been a failure (sorry, Pitamaha !), his
debacle on the day was certainly the lowest point of his illustrious, yet vain
life.
But protests came from a person who we had never counted on much. He
was Vikarna, Duryodhana’s own sibling and the eighteenth son of
Dhritarashtra. We knew he was different but did not quite know him to be
so courageous. Vikarna stood up from his seat and protested against the
actions of his own brothers. But unfortunately, Vikarna had no clout. His
voice of dissent was immediately smothered by Duryodhana and Karna.
Poor Vikarna! He would not get his due from us either. Bheema would kill
him at Kurukshetra during the war to fulfil his vow of killing all sons of
Dhritarashtra. Wherever you are now Vikarna, please forgive us, brother!
Bheeshma’s inaction was almost as good as an endorsement of the abject
depravity that was on show. Those uninterrupted rascals soon plunged to an
unimaginable low.
 ‘This woman serves five men! She is but a whore! Strip her off her
vanity. It should not matter much whether she is with or without clothes!’
That ‘brilliant’ comment was sutaputra Karna’s, who had long been in
search of such an occasion to get even with Draupadi to avenge his own
insult at Draupadi’s swayamvara .
Draupadi jerked like a singed lioness. Her glaring glances darted on
Karna’s face. At that very moment, Karna sent summons for his own doom.
Karna’s complex personality was braided with both black and white strands.
The evil company he kept did him no good to reconcile his very own
intrinsic contradictions, which were so central to his character.
‘Duhshasana, strip that slave woman off her clothes!’ This insane
instruction came from Duryodhana, which sent his brothers and friends into
raptures, who went lustfully berserk at the possibility of a unique
entertainment!
‘You must be tired of standing for so long, Draupadi. I offer a good seat
worthy of you—here!’ Duryodhana pulled up his yellow-green dhoti to bare
his right thigh and with a bawdy crook of his finger, asked Draupadi to sit
on the thigh!
That was a day of complete madness. The attribute called sanity had
evaporated from Dhritarashtra’s courtroom. Duryodhana, Shakuni, Karna,
Duhshasana—everyone was showing unbelievable eagerness to usher in the
great apocalypse which was approaching fast and furious. All of them and
us too, were behaving like puppets, dancing attendance to the strings pulled
by someone else up there!
Duryodhana had many major vices—he was arrogant, spoilt, crooked,
envious, greedy, blunt, insecure, uncultured—but I have never heard or seen
him being nasty with women before. He loved his wife Bhanumati and to
the best of my knowledge, remained loyal to her. Though he might not have
been strictly monogamous, he was not known to have special affinity for
women unlike many of his own brothers. His beautiful maids and slave girls
never felt insecure to roam around him, as far as I knew. But that day was
different, very different. Could anybody have imagined a person like Karna
make such uncouth comments to a woman?
After winning the pasha games, Shakuni did not have much left to do. He
was enjoying the postgame session no doubt, but I suspected that such
odious excesses were not exactly to his liking. The reason was quite simple.
Shakuni knew that we were already washed up and humiliating us in such
an abominable manner could have fired us up to take revenge. He knew
very well that should we take up arms and prepare for a military solution,
we were still capable of razing their kingdom to ground. Shakuni did not
forget politics even at that time, which a swaggering Duryodhana did not
take into account.
Duhshasana held the frills of Draupadi’s robe with an intention to yank it
off from her body. That was the end of Bheema’s restraints. He had kept
himself leashed thus far applying surprising self-restraint, quite
uncharacteristically. Now he sprang up from his seat and let out a horrifying
shout: ‘Sahadeva, light a fire! I will burn the hands of this man!’ No,
Bheema did not mean to burn Duhshasana’s hands. He wanted to burn my
evil hands instead, that turned our queen into a transferrable commodity!
Duhshasana started pulling her robe. I saw Draupadi staring upwards
with cupped palms, muttering something. Evidently, she was asking for
divine intervention as a last attempt to save her modesty. What else could a
poor woman have looked up to when her mighty husbands proved so futile!
I buried my face into my two palms. I waited for an obscene celebration
from the Kauravas. But there was a deathly silence all over, instead.
Curious, I slightly parted my two fingers to free my vision.
Though everybody knows today what followed next, I cannot resist
trying to describe it just to feel that singular thrill once more in my life. I
saw Duhshasana pull at her sari and take it off her body but she still
remained covered as before, for another sari appeared on her body
immediately from nowhere. Duhshasana again peeled off the new sari
which was instantly replaced by another one. The scoundrel removed that
too, only to find another sari twined round her instantly! He was not to give
in and kept taking off clothes from her body one after another but her
modesty kept perfectly preserved. A huge pile of saris mounded up on the
floor beside them. Duhshasana was huffing and panting vigorously and was
drenched with sweat.
Slowly, I lowered my palms which had covered my face. I bulged my
eyes as wide as possible to cover every part of that unbelievable scene.
Draupadi’s mutterings became slightly audible now against the
breathtaking silence prevailing in the room: ‘Hari…Hari…Hari….’
 I suddenly saw a fleeting, transparent image of Krishna (Hari) inside the
courtroom for an instant. Was I seeing things? How else could that be
explained? We knew very well that Krishna was far away from Hastinapura
at that time, busy fighting the Shalwas who had invaded Dwarka. I rubbed
my eyes in grand disbelief.
I saw that see-through image once again! The image lasted a little longer
this time. I could see Krishna’s right hand raised from elbow and an endless
stream of clothes were generating from his palm to cover Draupadi. Was I
the only person who saw the divine apparition? I looked around. I found
every single person on his feet, staring at the image of Krishna without
batting an eyelid. Meanwhile Duhshasana had given in; he sat down on the
floor wrapped up with the clothes of Draupadi. That inscrutable
phenomenon spurred a spontaneous round of applause in the assembly and
almost everybody praised Draupadi and abused Duhshasana.
Was it a mass-hypnosis conjured up by Krishna, the supreme magician?
But how could he have known what was happening in Hastinapura while he
himself was thousands of kroshas away? Draupadi’s earnest prayers
established an extrasensory connect with Krishna, notwithstanding their
physical distance, in a typical demonstration of the unique spiritual bonding
between a bhakta and the Bhagwan . I had always been the staunchest
believer of Krishna’s godliness although I had a rational tendency to judge
his personality, his actions and his capabilities through realistic reasoning
methods and general psychology of ordinary mortals. But since that day, I
would never have the temerity to try to understand Krishna by our own
frame of reference. I realised that only a small portion of Krishna was
intelligible to us and there was much more to Krishna which we would
probably never get to know.

-3-
That was a serious setback for the Kauravas. Krishna not only protected the
honour of Draupadi, but more importantly, presented a clear statement to
the world that he would throw his complete weight behind us when
necessary. Krishna’s enmity was the last thing Duryodhana could have
afforded. Duryodhana suddenly started feeling the heat.
 At last, Bheema exploded. His horrifying vows struck terror into
everybody present there. The first one, predictably, was a very special one
meant for Duhshasana who not only touched Draupadi’s hair, but also made
outrageous efforts to disrobe her: ‘You swine Duhshasana, just do not forget
a single word I am saying now! I will rip your chest open and drink your
blood in a war that will leave that King Dhritarashtra without any son to
perform his last rites! And if I fail, may I never get the destiny desired by a
true Kshatriya!’
The second one was for Duryodhana, most obviously: ‘And you
Duryodhana, the dirt of your mother’s womb! You dared ask our wife to sit
on your thigh? If I cannot crush that thigh of yours to pulp, may I never get
to meet my late ancestors after my death!’
Dhritarashtra, pusillanimous as he ever was, started to realise finally that
his sons were rushing breakneck into a certain disaster. He briefly removed
his crown from his head, evidently in an effort to soothe a sweating head,
and started to control the damage. Numb with apology, he turned to
Draupadi and addressed her, after clearing his throat a bit, ‘Please do
pardon my wicked sons, my dear child! Do ask a boon from me and allow
me the honour to grant it.’
This Dhritarashtra, only a little ago, had asked whether Draupadi was
really won, beaming with a vulgar interest. He, throughout his sad life, kept
wobbling between the good and the bad like this and never found comfort
on any side. Life too was not much kind on him either, complicating his
confusions further.
‘Then your Majesty, do please free my husband Yudhisthira. I cannot
bear my son Pratibindhya (the son of Draupadi and me) being called a slave
child,’ saying this, she gave me a furtive glance. I could not take it
anymore. This woman inflicted a monumental defeat on me and that
became the only glaring truth for me at that moment blurring all other
humiliations. I hid my face into my two palms.
‘So be it. Please do ask for another favour. Only one boon cannot be
enough to wash away this evil memory from your mind.’ Dhritarashtra was
desperate to stretch his generosity to the fullest. Draupadi freed her other
husbands. We all would be able to walk free by virtue of this woman who
had been put on wager by me! The woman’s good turn was so excruciating!
Dhritarashtra was eager to give her something more as his qualms were still
disturbing him. But Draupadi refused to ask for anything more. She was not
used to taking favour, that too from a person like Dhritarashtra. Her
magnanimous refusal revealed her class once more. It appeared to me that
she was the only living human being in the room in the midst of many
stinking carcasses strewn around her.
Dhritarashtra was overwhelmed. He announced everything I had lost to
Shakuni would be returned to me. Of his three boons, the third one seemed
to me the most spontaneous. If the first two were pretentious acts of
kindness, the third one was actually won by Draupadi. She won me back
my crown.
‘This lady rescued her husbands from dire straits all by herself. I don’t
know of any other woman of such substance.’ Karna sounded much sombre
this time, graciously admiring the woman he had nastily affronted just a
little go. His fervent infatuation for Draupadi, intertwined with a ferocious
hatred made him travel to the opposing extreme this fast. In a way, I could
identify my most private crisis with Karna’s. I pitied Karna.

-4-
But Duryodhana and Shakuni were not to give up so easily. They had
already tasted success. They would never allow the vacillating king to
squander it away. They put enormous pressure on an irresolute
Dhritarashtra and effected his change of mind.
We were made to play another game of dice, with a single objective this
time. The losing side would be banished out of the kingdom for thirteen
years. Of that, twelve years were to be spent in forest followed by another
year of agyatvaas which was to be spent incognito. But the thirteenth year
of agyatvaas was to be carefully spent without being identified or detected.
If detected, a subsequent banishment of another twelve years would be
imposed. The winners would rule the combined empire of Hastinapura and
Indraprastha until the return of the losers on successful completion of their
term of exile.
The ‘righteous’ son of Lord Dharma again failed to stand his ground as
saying ‘no’ was beneath his ‘dignity’! Thank the Almighty there was no
other exponent of dharma of my kind in the world at that time! Had there
been any, this world could well have become like a rotten fruit grubbed and
ravished by insects!
The result of the game was not different this time either. The moment
Shakuni’s dice landed on the pasha board, our fates were sealed. We had to
relinquish our kingdom (Indraprastha) to Duryodhana. Through the tears of
my eyes, I saw Duryodhana, Duhshasana, Karna, Shakuni and other
brothers of Duryodhana embrace each other and celebrate. Dhritarashtra
lowered his head to hide his happiness. Bheeshma, Drona, Kripa and Vidura
were seated dumbstruck with heads sunk deep in their chests, unable to
witness that ugly jubilation right in front of their eyes.
The scene that followed was unforgettable. We had draped deer-skin
around our shoulders and were slowly walking out of Hastinapura. The
townsmen stood on both sides of streets, weeping and lamenting. We heard
loud bewailings of women from inside their houses. We were really
popular, even in Hastinapura. Draupadi was walking with her face covered
with the dishevelled mass of hair. Even the wives of Duryodhana and his
brothers were apparently upset with the shameful acts of their husbands.
But those rascals did not relent. On the contrary, they were mocking us
obscenely! Duhshasana said to Draupadi, ‘Were you something of a burden
to your father, Panchali? Why did he have to marry you off to a bunch of
eunuchs so hurriedly? But still you can make amends, lady! Leave them
and….’
Bheema’s scream cut him short. Duhshasana pointed his finger to
Bheema and burst into laughter, ‘Ohhooo…look at that great ox. But is he
an ox or a bullock?’ Duhshasana asked for Duryodhana’s opinion!
Duryodhana started mimicking Bheema’s gait. Bheema’s face got
distorted in an angry grimace, ‘You imbecile, I remind you of my vows
about you and your dear brother. I will quench my thirst with the stream of
blood gushing from your brother’s ripped chest and dance on your wounded
body wallowing on the ground, before crushing your head underfoot!’
‘Brother Bheema, leave that bloody sutaputra for me. I swear, he would
look like a porcupine with my arrows stuck to his body and lie on his back
to have a last look on this beautiful world that creatures like him have
polluted enough!’
Arjuna cried on top of his voice pointing at Karna and scattered dust all
around indicating shower of arrows.
 ‘And that Shakuni is for me!’ Sahadeva shouted too.
‘All those who dared insult Draupadi today will receive from me the
severest of punishments after thirteen years!’ Nakula issued a spine-chilling
commination.
I covered my face with a piece of cloth. I heard Vidura say to
Dhritarashtra, ‘Your sons are fortunate enough that Yudhisthira has kept his
eyes covered. He can burn them to cinders by casting one single glance of
fury. He is not aware of his real power. If he were, you all would have
perished for sure.’
Was I really so powerful? Did Uncle Vidura exaggerate my capabilities
to frighten Dhritarashtra? I moved the cloth little aside to test. My gaze
found Duhshasana. But nothing happened to him. I covered my face again. I
was not so special to strike down my enemy with a glance. I walked on like
a beggar with an awkward limp.
Now I know Vidura was not lying. Duryodhana, Duhshasana, Shakuni,
Karna, Dhritarashtra—all got caught up by an invisible fire since the
moment they humiliated Draupadi and took away our kingdom. They
themselves never knew when they had started dying a slow and steady
death. Their ill-got achievement spoiled their personal lives too. They lost
glory. Their dreams were gone. They started believing that the game of
gambling was their biggest success. Trust me, they were better human
beings than what they made themselves become. Well before their actual
deaths in our hands, they had ceased to live due to their complete
estrangement from dharma.
Still I am not sure whether their doom could be solely attributed to my
wrath. But if I hear someone say so today, I won’t be much surprised. Now
I know my fury is dangerous. My dharma is no more a gospel of the weak;
rather it is a strength that helps remove fears and frailties from one’s mind
and enables him to inflict fiercest punishment on his adversaries.
That fateful day of the dice game was so different from the day when my
shrewd half-truth got rid of Acharya Drona. Today, when I look back at
those two unforgettable days of my life, I realise that although truth is too
sacrosanct to be compromised, it can still be adjusted in order to stay on
right course, if situations so demand. But there is a word of caution.
Without the supervision of a competent cosmic agent like Krishna, ordinary
mortals should never use their arbitrary discretions to tweak truth. This may
lead to a state of moral anarchy, especially with the difficult Kali yuga
around the corner. That is why Krishna’s relevance shall never cease to
exist, at least as long as the human race with all its quintessential
contradictions will continue to scurry on this planet.
 9
The Sylvan Sojourn

-1-

A
wise man had once told me that the most elementary nemesis of this
planet is hunger. It had not made much sense to me then. Almost all
my life till the day of that fateful dice game, my food had waited for
me and whenever I had felt like having it, it was immediately
brought—god knew from where—before me on a platter. Even when we
had gone underground after the Varanavata incident, livelihood was not a
big problem as we got liberal alms thanks to our disguise of mendicant
Brahmins.
But when we came out of Hastinapura having lost all our earthly
belongings, the first thing that struck me was how to get ourselves some
food. We reached the shores of Ganga and found absolutely nothing to eat
on our entire way to the river. I was feeling as if something was burning
inside my stomach. I could well imagine how intensely my mighty brothers
and wife were suffering. I deliberately refrained from looking at their faces.
We drank the holy water from Ganga filling up to our throats and lay on
the bank of the river to spend the night. Much more than the loss of glory,
wealth and power, what tormented me then was the presence of a disturbing
bodily sensation— hunger that was. It was further accentuated by the
frightening absence of any guarantee that the next morning would be any
better. That was how I got exposed to the most primordial insecurity of this
planet.
A number of Brahmins had accompanied us to the forest. They were too
attached to us to leave us. Though I always had a special place in my heart
for scholarly Brahmins and loved their company, now they seemed like a
burden on me for I had no means for their upkeep. Our priest Dhaumya
advised me to worship Lord Surya, the sun god, and seek boons from him
in order to ensure steady supply of food in our time of distress.
I hesitated. We all knew Lord Surya’s protégé was Karna, our arch-
enemy! I felt a momentary discomfort to seek blessings from the patron of
our rival-in-chief. Today it gives me infinite shame that such a mean
thought had ever crossed my mind. The disgraceful scepticism owed its
origin to our enemies who had embittered my mind to such an extent.
However, Dhaumya’s better senses prevailed upon me finally and I
submitted to the sun god asking for his favour.
Dhaumya taught me the procedures and the mantra for worshipping Lord
Surya. He also taught me one hundred eight names of the god.
I went into the depth of the jungle to start a rigorous worship. I did not
know for how many days I prayed to the god. In these days, I was
completely oblivious how my brothers and Draupadi made their living. I
was able to converge all my thoughts, mind and heart to a virtual image of
the god that I imagined with closed eyes. My single-minded devotion
finally paid.
The benevolent god manifested himself before me. It is impossible to
describe how he looked. I only saw an inexplicable hallow extending across
my entire field of view with a divine form faintly carved in it. The light was
surreal—dazzling yet soothing. There was a wonderful aroma that could
never have been given out by any earthly perfume. A sublime breeze
suddenly started flowing in an otherwise stuffy day, sprinkling tiny water
droplets along its trail. And I felt a peculiar happiness bubbling deep inside
me. At that saddest phase of my life, that fugacious pleasure seemed to be a
boon by itself.
The god was already aware of our misery and he knew better than me
what we needed at that hour. Before I could ask for anything, I saw a big,
round copper urn placed on the ground before me. Then I heard a divine
voice rumbling from several light years away:
‘Son, this pot is for you. This is an akshaya patra . Ask Draupadi to cook
some food in it. No matter how little it is, the pot will become full on its
own. You will be able to feed any number of people with that food and the
pot will continue to remain full. However, you must remember one thing:
the pot will remain full as long as Draupadi does not eat. It will become
empty again as soon as she finishes her meal. My pot will serve you well in
this trying phase of your life. I give you my word that on completion of
your banishment, you will regain your kingdom.’
The magnanimous sun god—father of our bitterest enemy—not only
obliged us with his magic urn, but also restored in me the hope that keeps a
human alive. It was also a silent rebuff to my myopic doubts about a god’s
neutrality.

-2-
We were staying at Kamyaka forest. We had entered the forest unaware of
its notoriety. It was the dwelling place of one terrible monster called Kirmir
and his kins. Within hours of our entry into the jungle, Kirmir showed up.
Rakshasas are generally ugly but this one was abominably grotesque,
though not exactly gigantic. We came to know from him that he was the
younger brother of Bakasura and a bosom friend of Hidimbo—the
Rakshasas Bheema had killed on separate occassions. That meant Kirmir
had some issues against us as well, besides his generic fondness for human
flesh. I had a quick look at Bheema’s face. But did my brother look happy!
It seemed that after a long time he got to play his favourite sport of beating
monsters hollow! However, Kirmir would turn out to be as savage as
skillful. The fight was initially evenly matched. But soon, Kirmir ran out of
steam. Bheema boxed, pummeled, thrashed and kicked him mercilessly till
the poor Rakshasa succumbed to a painful death. His relatives ran away
from the forest.
We built up an unassuming hut deep inside the jungle and cleared a wide
expanse of grasses and shrubs around it. Our weapons came in good use in
giving a tamer look to the wildness near our place of stay. We started eking
out our living by hunting animals. We started identifying the minimum
necessities of life which had earlier remained obscured from us behind
opulence. Our world had turned upside down.
Frankly speaking, I gradually started to like this life far away from glory
and power. The lengthening shadows of forest trees in grim twilights used
to give me solace. Though there was no physical comfort, there was peace.
In the adversity, the bonding between us became stronger than ever.
Draupadi proved her mettle as a housewife doing all household chores all
by herself and played the role of the common wife to perfection, pleasing
all the husbands in their own, different ways. She was impeccable as far as
duty was concerned, leaving that tricky issue of love aside.
Perhaps even love had different colours like a rainbow. Perhaps due to
my prejudiced notion about her special weakness for Arjuna, I unjustly
failed to discover how the woman had learnt to accept her other husbands
with different variants of love which I stubbornly undermined as duty.
But there were difficult moments too, sometimes. I would be subjected to
Draupadi’s vituperative tongue-lashing time and again.
Draupadi would always serve me food garnished with her rants—‘This is
your ceremonial lunch for today, my King!’ (serving a meagre meal of
coarse rice, lentil soup and one vegetable); ‘Forget about me, just see what
your dear brothers are being made to eat nowadays—thanks to you!’; ‘I
heard you are innocent, righteous and just. You must be so. That’s why you
could so easily pledge your wife and brothers in a dice game!’; ‘You should
be feeling relaxed now, Aryaputra ! Now nobody will think of cheating a
broke that you are today!’—her salvos were relentless, hurting, disturbing. I
took those lying down. It took all my strength to withstand her assaults. But
I deserved this.
She would always find support from Bheema. They wanted vengeance—
a brutal, savage, gory revenge on our enemy and kept goading me with their
words. My other brothers would keep quiet during these fiery sessions.
However, that did not obviously mean they did not hold me responsible for
the debacle. Definitely they did, though they were only little kinder on me
than Bheema and Draupadi were.
I too sometimes craved to wash the streets of my Indraprastha with
Kaurava blood. But at the same time I knew that the time was not right for
such impulsive adventure. We had serious handicaps at that time. Karna and
the skillful Ashwatthama were there on Duryodhana’s side. And there were
Pitamaha Bheeshma, Dronacharya and Kripacharya who were tied to the
throne of Hastinapura too hopelessly to go against the errant king.
Moreover, thrown out of our own kingdoms, we had ceased to command
much respect from our allies. We had already lost our clout. My brother
Bheema and Draupadi could not bring themselves to digest that little piece
of truth. Even Arjuna would become pensive while there was a talk of war.
On one pale morning, we were discussing these things. Everyone was
sulking. Draupadi was sitting depressed on the mud floor with her head
thrust between two knees. A breathless frustration was lolling in the air of
the room. There seemed to be no rays of hope for us anywhere.
Suddenly a long shadow appeared at the doorstep. A raw whiff of sandal
told me who it was. He must be Vyasadeva.
And so he was. His sudden appearance was enough to lift our sagging
spirits. We got up in a hurry and ushered him with due respect into that
dinghy room. Vyasadeva was synonymous with hope. Once again, this
ageless savant appeared out of nowhere to show us the way out of the
morass, like what he had done time and again before, and would do later
also.
‘You have done enough disservice to yourselves already. You should not
do any more by losing all hopes. Children, you will have to fight a great
war. You need to prepare for that, unnoticed by your enemies. Mind you, all
odds are against you. You are withering away, your morale has become
weak and your skills are gathering rust. Your allies have left you. How do
you think you can fight the formidable Kauravas?’
We did not have any answer to Vyasa’s question and looked vacantly into
his austere face, knowing well that only he himself knew the answer to his
own question.
He wanted to talk to me privately in a quiet, secluded place. I took him to
the backwoods. We sat face-to-face beneath a century-old ashwatthwa tree.
Vyasa said to me at a very low voice, ‘Listen carefully. I am going to impart
to you a secret knowledge called Pratismriti. This will enable you to reach
out to gods and receive favours from them. You will pass on the knowledge
to Arjuna. Powered with the knowledge, Arjuna will be able to meet gods
like Lord Indra, Rudra, Varuna, Kuber and Dharma and obtain celestial
weapons from them. Yes, celestial weapons! Once Arjuna gets such
weapons from the gods, you will become unbeatable. But don’t misuse
what I am going to teach you.’
I did not notice when that sad, dull morning had turned into a bright,
breezy day. Now Vyasa’s words brought a similar change in me. A
conventional fight would undoubtedly keep the Kauravas ahead of us. But
with those weapons, we would definitely be on top of them, or any other
opponent for that matter.
Vyasa sat closer to me and started whispering the mantras in my ears. He
chose me to teach the mantras instead of Arjuna as I was well known for
my sharp memory. After learning it myself, I would slowly teach Arjuna the
same so that he could learn it by heart and memorise well.
Vyasadeva rapidly chanted the hymns distinctly pronouncing each
syllable. I had closed my eyes to give him the fullest attention. Whatever he
was uttering was getting imprinted in my memory as if he was writing on
my mind with a falcon-feather. Fortunately, the mantra was not very
lengthy. Vyasa stood up after finishing the recitation.
‘Are you confident that you have learnt it by rote?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Good. Now go back to your place. Give Arjuna the secret knowledge,
maintaining its sanctity. Once he learns it, he has to be sent to heaven for
weapon training. All the best.’
Vyasadeva took my leave giving me a doting embrace.
I made a small mistake. Perhaps for the only time in my life, I forgot to
touch Vyasadeva’s feet. I was actually too overwhelmed to do that!
Teaching Arjuna the mantra was not easy, for his memory was not
particularly very sharp. However, after practising it countless times, he
finally managed to memorise it well.
Now it was time for us to part with him as he was to leave us for some
time in pursuit of invincibility.
That was really a teary moment. All six pairs of eyes were wet. Draupadi
hid herself inside the kitchen on the pretext of cooking. However, the sound
of utensils was not loud enough to suppress her snuffles. I felt genuinely
sorry for her this time. Destiny repeatedly plucked her away from the man
she desired the most. A faint sense of guilt again started to pinprick me.
Many years back when we had been teenagers, I had once lost a gem-
encrusted gold bracelet in a jungle. My brothers had rummaged through the
jungle to find it and finally found it inside a thorny bush. When they had
returned, I found them badly bruised and scratched, thanks to the thorns. I
had felt mortally guilty that day. I felt similarly guilty today also. I was
causing my dear brothers and wife great pains even today.
 Arjuna departed with a solemn promise to come back stronger—
unconquerable by any force in the universe.
We had faced many troubles before but always managed to stay together
as a cohesive, impregnable unit. We had remained resolute taking strength
from each other and managed to sail through our ordeals time and again.
But this was for the first time one brother would be staying away—nobody
knew for how long.
We were missing Arjuna badly. Without him, Kamyaka forest was
becoming increasingly intolerable to us day by day. We decided to set out
for a pilgrimage around the country. A good portion of the exile period
would then be spent visiting holy places. The idea made the day look
brighter.
Meanwhile, Rishi Brihadashwa paid us a visit. Seeing us so morose, he
asked me the reason. On knowing the story of our great misfortune, he told
us about the tribulations King Nal and his wife Damayanti had had to pass
through many years ago.
Brihadashwa likened me to Nal and consoled me, bringing tears to my
eyes. He did me another great favour by teaching me how to play pasha .
Earlier I had had a shy curiosity towards the game. In spite of my secret
interest, I was ethically too sensitive to learn the art of pasha games. Now I
learnt it from Brihadashwa. This knowledge would later stand me in good
stead during our agyatvaas at the kingdom of Matsya.
We set out for the religious excursion and started wandering around the
world. We visited holy places like Naimisharanya, Prayag, Agastya’s
hermitage at Manimati, Vishwamitra’s hermitage at the banks of Kaushiki
river, Gangasagar, Baitarini river at Kalinga kingdom, Godavari, Dravida.
Then we reached Prabhasa which was located at Krishna’s Dwarka. Krishna
and Balaram came to meet us there. Though it was a brief and tearful
reunion, it was good enough to restore in us that obsessive fixation with
life. The two divine brothers brought taste back in our mouth.

-3-
Bheema too was getting ample opportunities to hone his fighting skills. In
fact, the very beginning of our vanavaas had been marked with a ferocious
fight between Bheema and Kirmira which Bheema quite easily won, after
getting a good wrestling practice!
One mysterious Brahmin had been accompanying us for some time. The
man appeared well-read and was quite intelligent, though his knowledge of
the Vedas seemed somewhat superficial. I noticed one strange thing about
him. He used to show keen interest in our weapons which seemed quite
odd, for a true Brahmin never finds anything interesting about a mace or a
bow or an arrow or a sword or a javelin (Parashu Ram and Drona being
exceptions, however). A deep cut mark on his forehead was also not
compatible with a Brahmin that he claimed himself to be. He would observe
our weapons closely, touch them, sometimes even pick them up. We did not
like that. We were too sensitive about our weapons. Though my brothers
were constantly poking me to tick him off, I was hesitant to rub a Brahmin
the wrong way. Then one day, he exposed his true self—a monster called
Jatasura!
Bheema clenched his teeth in fury. From between his gnashing teeth, his
voice thundered, ‘I recognised you long before even when you stayed with
us disguised as a harmless Brahmin, you bloody cannibal! When you would
look at our weapons with glittering eyes, I recognised you!’
But there would not be much of a fight. It was almost a one-sided affair.
Bheema beat the monster to pulp and wrenched his head out of his trunk as
effortlessly as he tore away a fruit from its stalk. Bheema had killed many
Rakshasas before with different degree of difficulty but this fight seemed to
be the easiest. It was not because Jatasura was not strong enough. Actually
Bheema’s mastery bore clear signs of evolution from a raw, brawny,
visceral fighter to a skilled, crafty, unbeatable warrior.
While we were staying at Badarikashram, one day a north-eastern breeze
carried a peculiar lotus to us. The lotus had a thousand petals and smelt
sublime. Draupadi took a strong liking for the flower and urged Bheema to
get her more. I accidently overheard their conversation which was very
much rewarding for me. ‘I want to gift this lotus to poor Yudhisthira. I have
not been able to give him anything for quite a long time, save some taunts
and rants! Sometimes I feel too guilty for harassing him like that. Please get
me more such flowers, O my mighty Bheema! When we return to Kamyaka
forest, I will take them alongwith me.’
 Bheema immediately sprang to his feet and went out for the mission
promising her that he would return with as many flowers as possible, from
wherever, so that Draupadi could make a decent garland for me!
I could not resist tears. There was no one around; so I let myself flow.
My brother, who happened to be my co-husband also, rushed towards an
uncertainty so eagerly only to please Draupadi and me! And that noble
woman! Even after being so harrowingly wronged by me, the woman was
still trying to give me a good gift! Was I really good enough to have such a
selfless brother and such a devoted wife?
I knew Bheema’s quest for those flowers would be fraught with danger.
The flowers were to be found in a big, sacred river that originated from
Mount Kailash. The river was guarded by mighty Yaksha and Rakshasa
soldiers of Lord Kubera. When Bheema tried to collect the flowers floating
on the river, they prevented him. A fierce battle ensued. My brother wielded
his dreaded mace like a whirlwind. Kuber’s army was completely routed
and many soldiers were killed. Bheema, alone, proved to be far mightier
than a whole army that boasted of mystical spirits and savage forces of
Rakshasas . But the best part was that the magnanimous Lord Kuber was
not at all annoyed. He, by virtue of his divine knowledge, recognised the
‘miscreant’ as Bheema and understood why he needed the flowers. He
instructed his men to let Bheema take as many flowers as he could. Bheema
returned triumphant and exultant.
But the most important reason of his happiness was something other than
his victory, or the success of his expedition. Bheema had touched his most
private dream. Bheema had met the person he admired the most and always
tried to emulate— his illustrious and much celebrated half-brother
Hanuman the great!
When Bheema was going towards Mount Kailash, Hanuman apparently
manifested himself before him. Bheema was fumbling out of excitement
while narrating the story to us:
‘I requested him to show me the form he had assumed while jumping
across the ocean. He obliged me. His body started bloating and his stature
kept rising. His head seemed to be brushing against the sky. I could not bear
the sight of that gigantic, blazing figure. The bright brownish glow that
emanated from his body made me sweat and fret. Believe me brother, it
became too hard to stare at him. I had to shut my eyes. But the fervent
hallow was hurting my closed eyelids. Finally, I had to request him to get
back to his normal shape. After squeezing himself to his regular self, he
gave me an affectionate hug. I felt his strength was passed on to me through
the body contact. Really I do feel much stronger and more confident now.’
We all loved to hear the story. Draupadi asked whether Bheema had
sought Hanuman’s help in the impending war against the Kauravas.
‘He assured me saying that he alone would fight our enemies and win
back our kingdom. That was very much possible for him. But I thought it
would take away our glory. So I only sought his blessings,’ Bheema said
softly, probably expecting a rebuff from us. Draupadi frowned at him. But
we three brothers (Nakula, Sahadeva and I) appreciated him almost in
unison. Still we were harbouring that archaic romanticism of fighting no
less for glory than victory. Draupadi heaved an angry sigh and turned her
face away from us. Bheema looked at her and hurriedly said (in an attempt
to damage control), ‘But Hanuman will accompany us to the battlefield. He
has assured me that during the war he will take his seat on the flag of
Arjuna’s chariot and make terrible noise, unnerving our enemies.’
Sahadeva shoved some sweetmeats into Bheema’s mouth. We all were
extremely happy. Inputs had come that Duryodhana had already started
making various alliances anticipating a full-scale war. We were not in a
position now to start political negotiations. In such a difficult situation,
Arjuna’s association with gods and Bheema’s with Hanuman would
undoubtedly stand us in good stead.

-4-
We continued to stay on the Gandhamadan mountain. The place was so
beautiful that it dissuaded any kind of depression. We were living there
quite happily. One morning, we saw a dazzling chariot descend from the
sky. When it came closer, we recognised the charioteer as Matali—the
personal driver of Lord Indra. Then we saw the person sitting inside the
chariot.
Arjuna! My dear brother was back!
A mindless celebration broke out on top of the mountain. Arjuna was
about to touch my feet but Bheema did not let him. He lifted Arjuna on his
shoulders straightaway! Nakula and Sahadeva brought him down. Then we
all pounced over him. We five brothers were five segments of a single soul.
In Arjuna’s temporary absence, that soul was incomplete. Now the missing
piece sat back to its very own place, to everybody’s delight.
Arjuna and Draupadi’s reunion too was brazenly passionate. For the only
time ever, they hugged in public. And the embrace was not brief either!
However, my brothers did not seem to have minded that. But I felt a little
throb in my temples. Deep in my heart, that secret snake writhed again in its
quiet sleep!
We noticed a distinct change in Arjuna’s appearance. He looked much
fairer and more radiant. His face was smeared with a light coat of
lodhrarenu and his sculpted body was carefully dressed with cosmetics.
The coiffured hair was perfectly backbrushed and tied behind the head with
shell-garlands. Not a single strand of hair was out of place. A gorgeous
coronet was placed on the top of his head. And the ornaments, oh! The
white dhoti he was wearing was made of a cloth most certainly not woven
by any earthly artisan. An exquisite garland hung from his neck. Though
the flowers of the wreath were unfamiliar, I could guess them to be parijaat
. Arjuna, my very familiar brother, appeared mysterious. Evidently, he
returned rich with an incredible, life-changing experience from swarga —
heaven!
When Arjuna tried to give us the detailed account of his stint in paradise,
I felt I was being fortuitously privy to a fantastic dream seen by a mortal
being, ‘Matali drove that amazing car into the great beyond…an
inscrutable, preposterous universe… no sun, no moon…still no darkness…
stars, millions and millions of stars…reached Amaravati (the capital of the
Devaloka )…a surreal mist…gods, demigods, nature spirits all welcoming
me…Gandharvas singing…gorgeous Apsaras dancing around…Indra
embraced me….’
Trying to describe the heaven, Arjuna seemed to have slipped into a
trance. His discrete, incomplete sentences could not portray a clear picture
of swarga . Perhaps the magic of paradise cannot be translated through
words. Perhaps it should not be.
Arjuna had stayed in Amaravati and received arms training from Lord
Indra. Lord Yama (Dharma) gave him away his sceptre, Lord Varuna his
famous net and Lord Kubera a weapon called Antardhan. Besides advanced
lessons in warriorship, Arjuna received lessons in music and dance from
Chitrasena, the Gandharva king. But his most precious collection was the
gift from Lord Shiva, ‘The Devadideva granted me the Pashupat, the
weapon of universal destruction. Brothers, today I have got the Pashupat in
my weaponry—the Pashupat, you heard me right!’ Arjuna cried at the top
of his voice, standing on top of the highest peak of the Gandhamadan
mountain and flaying his arms, literally with the world at his feet!
I felt as if someone was wrapping us with a blanket of happiness. Nakula
asked a very pertinent question: ‘But did not you have to pay any
gurudakshina to Lord Indra?’
‘Yes, I had to. And it was no less hefty than what we had paid to Acharya
Drona!’ Arjuna replied mystically.
There had been a band of notorious Asuras called the Nivatakabachas.
They were more than three crores in number and were identical in
appearance and might. These ruthless, menacing Rakshasas were a major
threat to gods. On Indra’s instruction, Arjuna fought them and destroyed
them completely.
I pressed Arjuna to give us a demonstration of the heavenly weapons.
Arjuna jumped to his feet and immediately started reciting a sacred hymn in
his mind in order to recall one such weapon. We stood encircling him,
waiting with infinite curiosity.
Suddenly, I felt out of breath. I vigorously tried to draw in air through my
nostrils, but there was no air! Not only me; everybody was gasping. The
mountain peaks before us started crumbling making dreadful sound. Rivers
and oceans swelled monstrously, threatening to flood the entire earth. The
sun, which had been shining intensely just a while ago, suddenly dimmed.
The Brahmins forgot the hymns of the Vedas and they came rushing to us
with horror writ large in their faces.
It took us some time to realise what was happening. We never had any
idea about the consequence of invoking a celestial weapon.
‘Withdraw it immediately, Arjuna! Never play with the weapon of god!
And Yudhisthira, you shall get to see the effect of such a weapon only when
it will be required. Till then, you all should learn to be patient!’
It was Debarshi Narada. He had just descended from heaven to save the
universe from imminent ruin. The reprimand made us apologetic. Arjuna
quickly withdrew his weapon. Everything returned to normalcy
immediately.
I realised one thing then. The heavenly weapons were meant for dealing
with emergencies of cosmic dimension, not for winning a trivial political
conflict of this lesser world. Possession of such weapons would definitely
add to our glory, boost our confidence and improve our personalities but
ultimately we had to defeat the Kauravas in conventional warfare. We
would have to fight until our last breath, kill millions of enemy soldiers and
concede enormous personal losses to win back our kingdom. Divine
weapons were undoubtedly a great achievement for Arjuna, but they were
certainly not a shortcut to reach home.
But we found a new self-belief. I was beginning to believe in our
strength. With Krishna beside us, with so many special weapons in our
arsenal and with the sheer weight of dharma on our side, one thing was
certain. We understood that we could not be defeated at least.
That was one wonder the divine weapons did to us.

-5-
We were almost getting used to the recent series of feel-good happenings,
being oblivious of the filth of the very world and the time we belonged to.
Soon, we found back that old bitterness in our mouth and felt the familiar
scald of hatred in our hearts. Perhaps, one could not afford to survive in this
vicious planet without this much darkness inside him!
One day, Draupadi was alone at home only in the company of our priest
Dhaumya. We were out for hunting. While returning, I had a strange
sensation. My mystic intuition smelled something bad. I urged my brothers
to hurry up and get back to our place as soon as possible.
As we neared our home, we saw Dhaumya rush hotfoot towards us with
bulging eyes and frothing mouth. Evidently, something untoward must have
taken place!
Dhaumya broke the news from quite a distance: Draupadi had been
abducted by Jayadrath!
Jayadrath, the Sindhu king who was the brother-in-law of Duryodhana,
had been passing by our accommodation with a large retinue of followers.
He did not know we were camping there. Draupadi had been standing
outside the hut then. Jayadrath caught a glimpse of her and went crazy. The
irresistible charm of Draupadi apparently knocked the lech out of his
senses. He tried to make lewd advances to her. On being snubbed by
Draupadi, he did the most daring act of his life. He forcibly pulled her into
his chariot and drove off.
Before Dhaumya could finish his account, we had already started
charging towards the direction he had pointed at.
A little later, they were seen. The large entourage, with Jayadrath at its
centre, was speeding away northwards. Dust kicked up by many horses
created a haze near the horizon. We flogged our chariot horses mercilessly
to catch up with them. As the distance narrowed down, we saw Jayadrath
and Draupadi grapple in the chariot. Draupadi was trying frantically to free
herself. Jayadrath seemed to be struggling hard to keep her inside the
vehicle, for Draupadi was quite a strong woman.
An arrow whistled past my ear towards Jayadrath’s chariot, followed by
three more in quick succession. Those darts were Arjuna’s, aimed at the
four horses of Jayadrath’s carriage. Fatally struck by the arrows, the horses
fell dead making the vehicle crash to the ground. Jayadrath and Draupadi
fell down. Draupadi, the smart woman that she was, immediately stood up
and came rushing towards me with a slight limp. I reached her and took her
up in my car. She broke into angry tears and dug her face into my chest.
Meanwhile the scoundrel had stood up. His royal attire was all over the
place and the cheeky diadem hung funnily at one side of his head. He
sensed trouble now as Bheema was charging towards him furiously with his
mace upraised! Jayadrath tried to scurry away, limping. His bosom friend
Kotikasya—the lickspittle ruler of a vassal state—crossed Bheema’s way
with too ambitious an objective of stopping him. I would later learn from
Draupadi that this obnoxious jackal of a man had tried to convince her of
the ‘benefits’ of giving in to Jayadrath’s demands. However, Kotikasya
could not survive even one single strike of Bheema’s mace.
The bodyguards of Jayadrath had already been killed by Nakula and
Sahadeva in fierce close combats. Arjuna took care of his friends, some
fellow monarchs and the small army without loss of much sweat.
Bheema, meanwhile, had caught a fleeing Jayadrath by the scruff of his
neck and thrashed him violently. Seeing Bheema’s mood, a very different
type of fear gripped me. He must be stopped from killing Jayadrath as he
was the husband of our cousin Duhshala, Duryodhana’s only sister. We had
every right to punish Jayadrath but we simply must not get poor Duhshala
widowed in the process of punishing him.
At my bidding, Bheema reluctantly spared Jayadrath’s life. But he was
not kind enough to leave the hapless Jayadrath unscarred. Bheema took out
a half-moon-shaped shaft—the Ardhachandra arrow—from his quiver and
shaved Jayadrath’s head with that, leaving five tufts of hair giving him a
ludicrous look.
A humiliated Jayadrath asked for pardon. Draupadi asked Bheema to
release him. In a choked and faltering voice, he thanked us for letting him
off with such a nominal punishment. Giving him an earful, we told him to
leave the place at once.
Jayadrath, too devastated to keep his head straight on his shoulder,
walked away with a strange gait. He was walking slowly and with
difficulty, as if great loads were tied to his feet. After going some distance,
he halted and turned back for a moment.
I saw a feral contempt glistening in his moist eyes. The glower makes me
cringe even today. Jayadrath was no longer looking comic with those
clumps of hair dangling around his smooth shaven pate. He was looking
murderous!
Sparing Jayadrath’s life that day would later prove to be a colossal
blunder. It would usher in its trail the most excruciating blow ever dealt to
us by any foe. His vengeance came crashing down on someone who he, or
perhaps anybody on earth never had any animus towards. The dead face of
Abhimanyu, mutilitated almost beyond recognition, still goads me in sleep
reminding me of that pathetic instance of my misplaced leniency.
I have seen many deaths; yet managed to move on in life. But
Abhimanyu’s death was too disturbing to accept. Not even could my own
son’s death perturb me as much as Abhimanyu’s did. Even today, whenever
we tend to be taken with any good thing of life, the horrible memory
springs out from nowhere, ripping asunder the sheath of oblivion to sour
our happiness.
We harboured a false notion that we managed to survive the tragedy but
now I realise we actually have not. What remains of us today are some
bitter, beaten souls—marooned in this world of folly and fury, heartlessly
carrying on with our roles with a histrionic pretence until our own moment
of redemption comes.
 10
The Son Meets Father

-1-
‘
harma is the only option of the weak,’ Shakuni had once remarked.
DThe wicked comment of Shakuni was not only disturbing but
dangerously misguiding also. I would often feel the necessity of
proving him wrong. Though I had no need to do so (Shakuni was too bitter
an enemy to have a debate with me on dharma ), I badly needed to present a
statement before my own self—to prove atleast to myself that Shakuni was
wrong. That was important because my confidence sometimes fluctuated
and a self-doubt often invaded my psyche. Was my infinite goodness
ruining my life?
Even during exile, I managed to prove that I was still strong enough to
inflict an overwhelming psychological defeat on Duryodhana and his
henchmen. And the weapon I used for that? Magnanimity it was—though at
a lethal dose!
Duryodhana’s foolish arrogance presented that opportunity to me, quite
unexpectedly.
We were living at the Dwaita forest at that time. There was a locality of
cowherds nearby. The cattle kept at that locality belonged to Hastinapura.
We always avoided that locality. That was the only uncomfortable thing
about the otherwise likeable forest. We were wary that any time a team
from Hastinapura might visit the place to examine the cattle. It did not seem
a pleasant idea that an entourage from Hastinapura or Indraprastha would
find us here in such a destitute condition. After all, I had ruled over them
once upon a time!
 One day, a few elderly people dressed in elite attire, came to us rushing. I
recognised two of them. They were Duryodhana’s ministers. But what made
them approach us?
‘My lord, we are in serious trouble!’ One of them cried.
‘My lord!’ It was a pretty long time since I had been so addressed!
‘What…what happened?’ I tried to ask with my curiosity tamed as much
as possible.
‘Sir, we came here to inspect the cattle. But we did not know that a large
group of Gandharvas were camping just nearby. Our armed guards picked
up a quarrel with them without any good reason. It escalated out of control
and a serious fight broke out. Initially King Duryodhana, Karna,
Duhshasana, Shakuni and others did well and killed a number of the
Gandharvas . But then, their leader—sort of a king perhaps—arrived. He
completely routed our men. Everybody fled, including the mighty Karna;
only our poor King Duryodhana and the womenfolk could not run away!’
‘You mean he has been killed!’ Bheema boomed so loud (obviously out
of delight!) that a number of deers scampered away out of fright.
‘No Sir…not yet. The Gandharvas have captured him and our women
and may give him death sentence!’
‘Let them! That is what we too have kept in store for him! Let the
Gandharvas slaughter that ruffian and raise a toast to his ashes. Oh, I never
knew these Gandharvas are so sweet and sensible!’ Bheema roared and
danced around.
I looked at the faces of Draupadi, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva. They all
were carefully studying my reaction, holding back their own happiness.
They were evidently wary of me and my ‘ridiculous’ sense of morality.
And indeed I played the spoilsport. I ordered my brothers to go and free
Duryodhana from the Gandharvas immediately.
‘This is not the time for enmity, brothers! It is a slur on us too that our
cousin has been captured and women of our house are at the mercy of some
Gandharvas ! This cannot be our moment of glory. It is a matter of honour
and pride for us that today we have been requested to help him out, in spite
of our strained relation. Rush immediately. First request the Gandharvas to
let him off. If they do not listen, apply force. Duryodhana must be saved.’
My brothers could not believe their ears. Draupadi nodded hopelessly
and flayed her arms in utter disgust. Bheema started giving his piece of
mind, reminding me of those numerous instances when my goodness had
charged us an exorbitant price.
But this time I knew very well what I was doing. Never before had I been
so confident of my action as I was now.
‘You heard me, Bheema! I repeat, go immediately to save Duryodhana.
If you or your brothers have any problem, then I myself will have to go—
alone!’
My sternness surprised my brothers. They did not utter a single word
more and galloped on horseback to obey my orders. Draupadi was saying
something. I did not mind. I was just as used to her rants as to the familiar
clamour of her bangles. And I never needed a conference to take a decision
I sincerely believed to be right—not even today.
My brothers defeated the Gandharvas and freed Duryodhana. He
avoided eye contact with my brothers and returned to his kingdom sulking.
He would apparently slip into a severe form of depression and even become
hell-bent on committing suicide! His friends and brothers had to try really
hard to dissuade him.
It was indeed a remarkable decision. Still I feel proud of it. Dhaumya
immediately admired it, for he saw an incorrigible goodwill behind it.
Honestly speaking, the uncomplicated Dhaumya misread my decision.
Admiration I deserved, though not for any goodwill. Krishna too would
praise my action later, correctly recognising the sagacity beneath a pretence
of magnanimity.
When I first heard the news of Duryodhana’s defeat and capture, my
heart danced for an instant. I too felt happy like my brothers and wife. But
then I asked myself what we should be able to achieve with a certain
Duryodhana slain by the Gandharvas. The answer that came from inside
me was not encouraging at all. In his absence, the next-in-line Duhshasana
would have been made the king and no way was he any better than his
brother as far we were concerned. In any case, we were to comply with the
terms of our banishment and prepare for a war after that, assuming that they
would never return our kingdom.
But by showing the kindness, I won widespread respect. The act of
generosity was bruited far away by words of mouth. Even some of
Duryodhana’s ministers were overwhelmed at this gesture and one of them
would become a spy of ours later catering useful inputs during the build-up
to the war. We came to know from many visiting Brahmins and sages how
widely I was being admired everywhere—even in kingdoms not friendly
with us. Pressure started to mount on Dhritarashtra and Duryodhana to
return our property at the earliest. It was a different matter that they would
not do so, but they knew they were down.
Another very important thing happened. Karna’s vulnerability was
exposed. He had been squarely beaten by the same Gandharvas my
brothers had so easily defeated—without any army at that! Though Karna
was not adequately armed and was possibly heavily drunk, his assumed air
of invincibility took a beating nevertheless. The same was for his loyalty
Duryodhana so blindly counted on. He later promised to Duryodhana that
he’d never touch intoxicating drinks till we were defeated and killed.
Shakuni and Duhshasana too let him down with their cowardly flight,
leaving him alone in grave danger. This was far more a personal setback for
Duryodhana than a martial loss. Though the war could not be averted
ultimately, Duryodhana was already contaminated with a fear of defeat—a
feeling he despondently tried to suppress with increasingly vaunting words
and eccentric arrogance. Had I allowed him to be killed by the Gandharvas
on that day, the Kauravas could have become more determined and more
menacing in their fight against us to commemorate their late leader. I knew
that a dead Duryodhana could have been a far more dangerous enemy than
the living Duryodhana.

-2-
Dharma, as I understood, can be much more than only a private cult leading
one to the threshold of ultimate salvation. It can as well become a potential
talisman—an impregnable armour fending off threats to one’s cardinal
entity. I want to recollect an incident where I could save my brothers from
the gorges of certain death. I did not have to use any weapon to save them.
My wisdom, embellished with an astute perception of righteousness
managed to save the lives of my dear brothers. I came to this world with
that natural gift in my genes, thanks to Lord Dharma, the god of the truth,
nobility, righteousness and justice who apparently fathered me.
 The incident is widely remembered and it has now become central to my
image of a righteous idol, establishing it on a firmer base.
Our exile in forest was almost nearing its end. One day, we five brothers
were chasing a deer in the jungle. We showered arrows on it but
surprisingly could not hit the target. Even Arjuna’s arrows were whizzing
past the deer scraping through its body, just short of hurting it. The nimble-
footed, lissome animal was racing away in a strange zigzag path making our
job extremely difficult. Finally, it disappeared into the forest giving us the
slip. We were completely exhausted and tottered to the shadow cast by a
great banyan tree nearby to let ourselves fall on the ground for some rest.
I was little surprised to observe that my brothers could not digest this
little failure. They started to doubt their own abilities. They even started
thinking that all their valour and prowess had deserted them as a
punishment for their inability to protest against the misdeeds of our enemies
and started lamenting hopelessly. I knew that none of my brothers had that
mature spiritual understanding to fall back on at the time of acute emotional
crisis. At the same time, I held myself responsible for subjecting my all-
conquering brothers to such a debilitating self-doubt. I tried to buck them
up but it did not do any good to their sagging spirit.
But it was my day. That day was one of the most special days in my life
just because I could prove my real worth—for once.
We had become very thirsty. I asked Nakula to bring some water from a
nearby river. Nakula went to fetch water. As he was taking an unusually
long time to return, Sahadeva went to see if anything was wrong. He did not
return either. Then Arjuna went. As none of them returned, Bheema tossed
his enormous mace in his hands and went to see for himself. I was left back
alone. I sensed something must be wrong. I waited eagerly to hear the
footsteps of my brothers.
No. Bheema too did not return. I got up and went to the river anxiously.
On reaching the riverside, the scene I saw still dries my throat up, even
after so many years! The bodies of all my brothers, evidently lifeless, were
strewn about on the bank of the river!
I shook them violently but none responded. I cannot describe exactly
how I felt at that time. Grief, astonishment, fear—all were rolled into an
unbearable trauma. Who or what could have killed my brave, mighty
brothers? I looked around. There was no one there. The place was
peculiarly quiet. I walked a couple of steps into the river to drink some
water and sprinkle some on my face in an effort to shake off the nightmare,
if it were so.
Suddenly, a thundering superhuman voice was heard from above.
‘Don’t you dare touch the water before I permit you. Your haughty
brothers dared defy me, and see the consequence!’
‘I…I will never defy you, my Lord. Please do pardon my brothers and
give them back their lives. My poor brothers have got only sufferings in
their lives so far. Please let them taste the good things of life as well.’
My words were trembling with a genuine weight of tragedy. There was a
little silence. Then I saw a monstrous heron appear on the other side of the
river, standing on one leg. The heron was even taller than the palm tree he
was leaning against. The heron was basking fervently even in the twilight,
making it difficult for me to stare at him.
‘I am a Yaksha . If you can answer my questions properly, you will be
able to drink the water from my river and I can consider the case of your
brothers.’
The Yaksha’s strange proposal reminded me of my encounter with a
horrible python a few years back. The python had assaulted Bheema and
was about to kill him. I reached there just in time and requested him to
release my brother. He said he would do so only if I gave satisfactory
answers to his questions. I agreed and managed to please him with my
replies. His questions, curiously, were related to the Varna system of the
society. When I said, ‘It is impossible to determine the true caste of a
human being and all castes are impure in my eyes,’ he was visibly excited
and released Bheema unharmed. Later I came to know that the python was
actually the ancient King Nahusha who was under a curse and had been
ostensibly waiting for thousands of years for only me to free him from the
curse.
I saw a chance. It was obviously easier for me to involve in an
intellectual duel with the heron or that self-claimed ‘Yaksha ’ than a
physical one; considering its gigantic size. I agreed. The heron, which must
be a greater being in disguise, started grilling me.
His questionnaire was intriguing enough. He started with some very
fundamental beliefs of the Vedic orthodoxy, and then gradually entered into
realms of subtler philosophy. I didn’t know why, I had a gut feeling that the
questions had some particular relevance for me. It seemed that the questions
were being served to me with a particular motif, as if to make me remember
the answers by revising what I had learnt long ago. I understood that this
heron, unlike Nahusha, crossed our path not for doing himself any service
but with a noble intention of refreshing my knowledge and consciousness.
But I could not afford to be much relaxed because the fate of my brothers
hung precariously on my performance. I knew I was in for the toughest test
of my life.
‘Who keeps the sun so high? Who revolves round the sun? Who sends
the sun setting? Where is the sun established?’
That was the heron’s first set of questions.
I remembered how I had been taught these things by some scholarly
sages long before I came to Hastinapura. I knew that it was Lord Brahma,
the creator of the entire universe who keeps the sun that high in his
conceived design of the universe. Gods, demi-gods, planets and other
heavenly bodies revolve round the sun. It is dharma that sends the sun
setting in consonance with the cyclical pattern of pleasure and pain
affecting mortal beings. And the irrelative, absolute truth that prevails in the
timeless, infinite space well beyond the reach of mundane confusions and
nuanced perspectives, adorns the sun at its core.
I answered it with a composed poise, digging it up from my primary
education and serving with carefully chosen words.
The heron asked about the human fallibilities of Brahmins and
Kshatriyas and their generic qualities. I explained it to the best of my
knowledge and belief—my reply being more of a personal opinion. The
heron apparently accepted the reply. He asked more questions. I handled
them quite satisfactorily. Strangely enough, I, in the meantime, found
myself enjoying this question-answer session. The queer encounter was an
opportunity to brush up my scholarship that was gathering dust thanks to
the intense, loud, belligerent Kshatriya life I was thrown into.
In came the next set of questions:
‘What does one have to shed in order to become popular? What must one
give up in order to be immune to sorrow? What, if forsaken, can make one
rich and happy?’
Was it meant for reminding me of the other stream of life far removed
from to the one festered with utterly parochial, worthless thoughts and
fumes of demented fury? My suspicion that the towering water bird was
actually not an enemy started to convert into a firm conviction. But who
could this incredible creature be?
However, my reply was crisp and spot-on this time, too:
‘Conceit, anger, desire and avarition are to be left out respectively in
order to gain popularity, freedom from sorrow and to be rich and happy.’
The last two rounds of questions had deep philosophical undertones. No
ordinary mind could have conceived such queries.
‘What is the Message? What is Strange? What should be the Path? Who
is happy?’
Though I did not readily know the answer I took it as a challenge to
devise out the most suitable reply derived from the depth of my knowledge,
understanding, experience and intellect. I took some time before eliciting a
reply. I admit today, I still please my own self with the answer I managed to
generate under incredible mental pressure.
‘In this enormous illusory pot, time is cooking up all living beings with
the sun as its fire, days and nights as its fuel and months and seasons as the
stirrer. This, I believe, should be the Message. Death is inevitable for all
mortals, still we dream of a life without death—that is Strange. Different
Vedas, nuanced interpretations, myriad opinions create an ideological
confusion. So, the simplest way one can approach dharma is to tread the
beaten track of the “Mahajana ” (the person famous for his purity). That is
the Path, in my opinion. And happy is the blessed one who, without owing
anyone anything, cooks a simple, meagre meal for himself in a relaxed
evening at his own humble place.’
‘Perhaps your answer is closest to what I myself believe to be true,’ the
bird seemed to heave a sigh. ‘Now answer my last questions. Who is a Man
and who is prosperous?’
The challenge was even stiffer this time. I knew there were commonplace
answers to the questions. But the heron certainly did not mean to hear that. I
needed to approach it metaphysically in order to find a more abstruse reply.
My response to the last question was actually a soliloquy:
‘Admiration for all good works and achievements of a person is heard in
the earth as well as in the heaven. As long as the noise of the appreciation
continues to resonate in the universe, the person remains considered as a
Man. The supremely erudite soul, who can accept happiness or sorrow, past
or future and the pleasant or the unpleasant alike with equal nonchalance, is
prosperous in the truest sense of the term.’
I said it with my head hung down. I did not lift it even after I finished. I
was waiting to hear from the heron. The pause seemed endless. My
heartbeat was audible to me.
‘I am satisfied, my son. You have passed the test. You can now drink
water from my river.’
‘But sir, what about my poor brothers?’
I was dying with anxiety.
‘I can grant life to only one of them. Name the brother you want to see
alive.’
The heron uttered each word with ruthless distinction, scuttling my
euphoric mood.
It was another test, for sure. But this time, a corrosive self-doubt ate into
me. Should I be able to become equal to the task this time? All my brothers
were dearer to me than my own life. How could I choose one from them? I
knelt down, wilting under mountainous emotional stress.
First I thought I should ask for my own death to escape this predicament!
Then I reminded myself that I had been able to drag the game thus far from
a seemingly hopeless situation. I must not flunk the test at the fag end.
Bheema and Arjuna were my siblings while Nakula and Sahadeva were
my stepbrothers—a fact I had long forgotten, blissfully! Being my own
brothers was an immediate disqualification for Bheema and Arjuna as I
simply should not reveal any preference for my own siblings. I had to
choose between Nakula and Sahadeva, to keep one son of Mother Madri
alive alongside me, the son of Mother Kunti. A depressing thought
suddenly pricked my mind. Without Bheema’s strength and Arjuna’s skill, I
could never regain my kingdom. For a fraction of a moment, I was torn
between a shameful, yet very human dilemma. But very quickly, I won the
battle against my banal counter-ego. I held back my tears with some
difficulty to remove from my heart the last hope of regaining my lost
empire.
But between Nakula and Sahadeva, whom should I select? Sahadeva, a
stepson nevertheless, was Mother Kunti’s pet. Kunti probably loved him
even more than her own sons. So, it could not be Sahadeva as I did not want
my mother’s preference to prejudice my decision.
 That left Nakula, the least conspicuous of my brothers, despite being the
most handsome.
‘I want Nakula to live.’
‘Sorry? Come again!’
My answer was that unexpected to him! I repeated. The monstrous bird
appeared a little flummoxed. He showed a genuine curiosity to know why I
chose Nakula.
‘What made you prefer your stepbrother ahead of Bheema or Arjuna,
your invincible siblings?’
I explained to him why I did not choose Bheema, Arjuna or Sahadeva. I
also made him realise that my decision was not just a gimmick to impress
him. Being a less capable warrior than Bheema and Arjuna did not make
Nakula any less worthy to live and any less important in my life.
I did not have to wait for his reaction this time. The moment I stopped, I
heard him gushing out praises on me. ‘Your dynasty has been blessed to
have you, my son. Your unblemished soul is unpolluted by worldly vices. I
have put you to several tests today and you have come out with flying
colours. I will give lives back to all your brothers. You have snatched them
back from the clutches of death.’
All my brothers started moving their limbs and immediately got up, as if
they woke up from a deep sleep. Though I felt a sudden spurt of happiness
knocking me from within, I did not forget to ask him who he was. I cannot
describe now how important it was for me at that moment.
‘Please don’t leave us without revealing your true identity, my Lord.’
‘Son, I am none other than Lord Dharma, your father. It was just as
necessary for you to meet me as it was the other way round. I wanted to
know how my child is shaping up. You have made me proud, my son. Ask a
boon and get it granted.’
Lord Dharma! My father! My jaws dropped in astonishment and I did not
know how to react. I had realised that the Yaksha must be someone very
special but could not stretch my imagination that wide. But why was he still
disguised? Was I still not qualified enough to see my father in his usual
form?
At that remarkable moment, I could not think of asking for a boon. My
most immediate anxiety welled up to my lips. I asked him how we could
spend the last year of our exile incognito, without being recognised.
 ‘No one will be able to detect you during your agyatvaas (living
incognito), you have my word. Do spend the year at the kingdom of Matsya
ruled by the righteous King Virata. Be good. My blessings are always with
you.’
He faded away from my sight, though not from my mind. I still treasure
the experience. His words still reverberate in my ears.
Pandu gave me everything a father can give to his son, except only my
birth. Though physically incapable, Pandu was every inch a father material.
Still, I yearned for Lord Dharma in order to discover that inexplicable
purpose of my very existence in this world. It was a fact that I owed my
special distinction more to Lord Dharma than to Pandu.
 11
Being Someone Else

-1-
‘

B
ut brother, what other role than that of a king can you live up at the
kingdom of Matsya?’
Arjuna’s question, soaked with most sincere concern and anxiety,
still lingers with me. The question, which was more of an
exclamation rather, seemed to be like a reflection on my limited credentials
—as if I was good only for kingship. I was born a prince, I grew up to be an
heir-apparent and finally matured into a full-fledged king. The royalty
stayed put on my entity like my skin, and sometimes even got under it
giving me a blistering desire to shake off my royal vanity and free myself
into a liberated commonness for a brief period at least.
I mixed a little banter in my reply. ‘My dear Arjuna, did your brother
look like a king all these twelve years, wandering in forests and hunting
around just for the sake of a damned practice called living? Then why
today, you cannot see me in a lesser role?’
The pain in my words moved Arjuna so much that he could not hold
back his tears. There was one problem with Arjuna. He was given to sudden
bouts of depression. I put my hand gently on his shoulder to console him,
and heaved a heavy sigh to console myself at the same time. I wanted to be
a commoner no doubt, but I wanted that as a private experiment by my free
choice; not as a compulsion imposed by some heartless criminals.
On a fine winter morning of the twelfth year of our exile, we were
discussing how to spend the difficult last year in disguise (‘agyatvaas ’)
evading Duryodhana’s sleuths. Lord Dharma, camouflaged as a heron, had
advised us to spend the most challenging period of our exile at the kingdom
of Matsya ruled by the righteous King Virata. We too were aware of
Virata’s reputation. There was another advantage as well to prefer Matsya.
This state always maintained a non-aligned stand in the power struggle
involving Hastinapura and Panchala and their intense psychological warfare
with the great eastern power, Magadha. But Matsya had some old hostility
with Trigarta which was an ally to Hastinapura, making Matsya indirectly
inimical to Hastinapura. Still, the Kaurava rulers of Hastinapura had never
showed much interest to dabble in Matsya-Trigarta affairs and always
avoided direct clash with Matsya. The kingdom of Matsya, located at the
far west, was the least conspicuous region in the scheme of things of
Hastinapura, making it ideal for us to hide in.
But the biggest task for us was to decide our suitable covers. It was as
much an opportunity to rediscover our latent persona as a challenge to make
a decent living under the assumed identities in a foreign land.
Bheema was an excellent cook. He planned to become a chef in the royal
kitchen. Once upon a time, the finest cooks of Hastinapura and Indraprastha
would compete with each other to prepare his favourite dishes and wait
breathlessly for his appreciation. Now, poor Bheema would be preparing
meals for Virata and be wary whether the king liked it or not!
Arjuna, during his advanced arms training under Lord Indra, also had
learnt music from heavenly artists and became a musician par excellence.
He decided to pose as a transgender, expert in music and dance. What an
irony that was! A world-conquering warrior, whose charismatic masculinity
left no woman unmoved, would have to strut around with swaying hips and
speak with a luscious, effeminate tone carefully hiding his manhood from
the world for one full year!
Nakula was a qualified horse trainer and a skilled horse-breaker. He had
an uncanny ability to tame even the wildest of horses. He chose to assume
the role of a trainer and caretaker of horses at Matsya.
Sahadeva was a veterinary doctor par excellence and had excellent
understanding of the art of cow-tending. He decided to become a specialist
cattle-tender. The twins—the apples of my mother’s eyes—would now have
to take up petty, menial jobs in a foreign land where no one would take care
of their well-being.
That left myself and Draupadi.
 How should my wisdom and scholarship help me find a place there?
Why should I expect that King Virata would suddenly start listening to a
stranger’s maxims? Moreover, I was quite averse to picking up scholarly
debates every now and then like a typical Brahmin academician just to
prove my intellectual superiority. My erudition was devoid of aggression,
just like my politics.
It occurred to me that my understanding of statecraft and systematic
administration was widely admired by even the likes of Pitamaha
Bheeshma and Vidura. On a number of occasions, Uncle Vidura used to
make me a party to closed-door discussions between Dhritarashtra and
himself, where even Duryodhana or Shakuni were denied entry. My
judicious suggestions used to be liked by Dhritarashtra, notwithstanding the
fact that I myself was not exactly liked by him! A quiet, happy smile used
to appear on Vidura’s dour face each time I came up with good ideas,
honouring me with his silent admiration. I decided to set myself up as a
former member of King Yudhisthira’s council and an important ex-minister
in his advisory group. I knew that my own concept of a welfare state would
catch imagination of a prudent king like Virata. I was confident I could fit
nicely into this role, with an attitude slightly trimmed and any nostalgia
strictly prohibited. Difficult it certainly was, though not impossible.
That was when Arjuna voiced his painful concern for me. His inability to
accept me as anything less than a king touched my heart. Bheema and
Nakula lowered their heads to hide their tears. Sahadeva did not even try to
hide his. I told them, ‘While I am able to imagine a Bheema burning his
hands to feed others, these twins tending horses and cattles smeared with
dirt and filth and an Arjuna as a eunuch; you should have no problem either
to accept me as a courtier seated below the king.’
Now, all of us turned to Draupadi. What would she do at Virata’s
kingdom? I had seen women of different classes in female quarters of a
royal establishment. I could not imagine Draupadi in place of any such
woman. How could this fiery woman merge with female attendants of the
queen? I could not imagine Draupadi serve any woman other than Mother
Kunti. How should she react when the queen of King Virata would give her
instructions or for that matter, an earful? How would she hide her lethal
charm that bewitched men like hapless insects crazily attracted to fire? How
would she rein in her volatile spirit? How could she ever appear an ordinary
woman?
We dared not give her any suggestions.
But she was amazingly composed. She had clearly come to terms with
the circumstance.
‘I will become a sairindhri —I will find a place in the close quarters of
Queen Sudeshna and impress her with my skills in embroidery, knitting,
interior decoration, hairdressing and so on. It will be fine for me, no?’
Her voice choked towards the end. We sat speechless—not because we
did not have anything to say, but because none of us was strong enough to
say anything at that moment. Draupadi faked a laughter in an effort to look
smart, ‘I shall manage, do not worry. You know I am very good at these
little hand-works.’
She said that looking me straight into my eyes. I felt the serrated tail of
her contempt caressing my face. No one else could notice the little assault.
But it was not lost on me. I had learnt to live with it in this harrowing
twelve years, by the way.

-2-
We prepared ourselves for the struggle. This time, we would be required to
shun even our cherished identities.
As we moved close to the boundaries of Matsya, we realised that our
actual identities were not the only thing we would have to stay separated
from. We would have to part with our weapons too that we had still been
carrying unawaringly. They had become almost like our extended limbs.
Very rarely did I see Arjuna without his Gandiva (the bow of Arjuna) that
Lord Agni had gifted him, Bheema without his monstrous mace that
Brishaparva the demon-king had owned many years ago, and the twins
without their crescent swords that dazzled even in the dimmest of lights. I
myself seldom walked without my lofty javelin that I had learnt to use in
several ways quite effectively. For one long year, we would have to remain
away from our most trusted companions.
There was a large, barren strip of field beyond which the kingdom of
Matsya was located. Just on the boundary of the kingdom, there was a small
hillock on top which a towering acacia tree stood tall like a watch tower.
We decided to hide our weapons on top of the tree, carefully concealed
inside the dense cover of leaves. Nakula tied our bows, arrows, swords,
javelins, mace, lances and our conchs with utmost care and wrapped them
with a white cloth. Then he hugged the bundle. It seemed to me that the
bundle also hugged him as if two lovers embraced each other prior to
imminent separation. After Nakula, Bheema, Arjuna, Sahadeva and myself,
one by one, paid our most respectful obeisance to our weapons before
hiding it under the leaves of the tree.
After parting with our weapons, it was time for all of us to separate from
each other. We would have to enter Matsya separately and pretend that we
were unknown to each other, which was another difficult test.
Surprisingly, my entry to King Virata’s court was much smoother than I
had imagined. I understood that Virata was quite an accessible king and he
ruled the country with a relaxed, decentralised yet effective administration.
In fact, except Dwarka, I had never seen such a relaxed and happy state.
The lack of cumbrous protocols at Virata’s court was the first thing that
impressed me. The second thing was obviously the humility of the king
himself.
‘O noble-looking stranger, please let me know who you are. Your
presence in this court makes it look much brighter. Is there anything I could
do for you?’
I was not used to such modest address from a king. Everything here
seemed to be so different from Hastinapura.
‘Your majesty, my name is Kanka. I was a trusted member of King
Yudhisthira’s cabinet. I believe you have heard of him and the sad story of
his exile. After his departure, I became shelter-less. It is the search for a
suitable shelter that has brought me to your noble land.’
‘You were Yudhisthira’s aide? Really?’ The middle-aged king almost
shouted in a pleasant astonishment. He went on praising a certain
‘Yudhisthira’ to my utter delight:
‘I have heard of him and his nobility so much! He must be much junior
to me by age, but notwithstanding that, I am a great follower of some of his
ideas. Please do tell us something about him and oblige us.’
I read out to the king a few pages of my life to tell him ‘Yudhisthira’s’
story full of unbelievable vicissitudes of fortune.
 ‘How I wished to meet him! Still, it is good enough that we have got at
least you in our midst. Do stay here and grace my assembly.’
Yudhisthira, the fallen icon, still mattered so much! My case was settled,
thanks to the naiveté of King Virata. I looked around the royal assembly. In
terms of size, grandeur and opulence, the court of Virata could not come
anywhere close to the courts of Hastinapura, Panchala, Indraprastha or
Dwarka. But there was an unmistakable air of affability that won my heart.
I realised I would be able to give one year of my life to this place.
Bheema entered next. I was little nervous to find him carrying a black
sword, which was at odds with his guise. This reckless brother of mine
would never part with a weapon! His monumental stature and sculpted
physique earned silent admiration from all around. He introduced himself as
Ballava, former personal chef of Yudhisthira and a part-time wrestler.
Surprisingly enough, Bheema acted quite convincingly.
‘I appoint you as the chief of my cooks, O mighty young man. But I am
afraid that might be too trivial a job for you as you deserve something much
better.’
Arjuna, disguised as a eunuch, created quite a stir in the assembly. He
sported long, braided hair and spoke with an articulate effeminate drawl.
Dressed in a female attire, he behaved little comically with typical feminine
postures. He introduced himself (or herself!) as Brihannala, a wretched
transgender, and narrated a long, whining imaginary story punctuated with
appropriate weeps, sobs and pauses creating the desired effect. He was
appointed as the music and dance teacher for Princess Uttara and other
aristocrat ladies.
Nakula and Sahadeva too managed to find their places as master tenders
of horses and cattles respectively, just as they planned.
I, and surely my other brothers as well, were dying to know what befell
Draupadi! But it was not readily possible for us to know what was
happening in the ladies’ quarter of the palace. Later, Arjuna would secretly
tell me of Draupadi’s experience.
Draupadi was hesitantly approaching towards the palace while she caught
the notice of one female attendant of Queen Sudeshna. It was immediately
reported to the queen that a magnificent-looking woman was loitering
around the palace. Sudeshna immediately summoned Draupadi to meet her
in her private chamber. Draupadi introduced herself as Malini, a sairindhri
who previously had attended the likes of Queen Draupadi and Satyabhama,
Krishna’s wife.
Much later, Draupadi would shyly describe to us how Sudeshna reacted
on seeing her. On our request, Draupadi mimicked her expressions having
us split with laughter.
Sudeshna’s jaws apparently dropped, eyes bulged and breath stopped on
seeing Draupadi. She looked her up and down in grave astonishment to
scrutinise Draupadi’s physical features carefully. Then she cleared her
throat, struggled to find suitable words and muttered haltingly, ‘You are
better suited for issuing orders than carrying them out, lady. Your manner is
mild, voice soft and melodious…hmm… breasts and buttocks are bulging,
navel deep… okay…your nose is sharp and erect…your thighs brush
against each other…that’s great…palms, feet and lips are reddish…oho,
you have got a luxurious shock of hair too. You are as beautiful as a
Kashmiri mare. Who are you—a goddess, Yakshi , Gandharvi or Apsara
?…I fear that my husband, King Virata, though righteous enough, may fall
for your irresistible charm. I can allow you here only to my own peril.’
Draupadi smelled trouble. But she was smart enough to tackle the
situation.
‘Doomed is that wretched one who tries to be inappropriate with me, her
majesty can take my word. I am the wife of five mighty Gandharva youths
and am well protected by them always, everywhere. Our estrangement is
only temporary and is only a part of a particular ritual. Blessed is the one
with whom my husbands are pleased.’
Sudeshna had taken such a strong liking for Draupadi in the meantime
that she actually wanted to keep her, but a quintessentially feminine sense
of insecurity was holding her back. Draupadi’s words removed all fears
from her mind, and she happily accepted Draupadi as her sairindhri .
Unbeknownst to him, King Virata made a significant contribution to the
process of restoration of dharma in this troubled world, simply by allowing
us some place in his kingdom at our hour of dire crisis.
We started the last year of our banishment as completely different
individuals, declassed and estranged from our original identities.

-3-
It did not take me long to impress Virata. He, as I found, was a very simple,
straight, cheerful man. He had a short fuse and used to flare up suddenly
only to calm down even more quickly. He was intelligent, but slightly
reticent. His greatest passion was playing pasha , with negligible or no
stake. During my stay in the forests, I had learnt the art of pasha well from
Brihadashwa, a sage of great repute, who himself was a master player. He
made me sort of an expert of the game. I used to play long games of pasha
with Virata, exchanging good natured and mutually respectful humour.
Virata’s concept of politics and administration was little old-fashioned.
His idea of benevolence was limited to granting his subjects whatever they
asked for at public audiences. He never thought of taking pro-active
measures to improve the general standard of living of his subjects and
quality of education, eradicate social inequality, boost up trade and
commerce, strengthen the army and so on. I witnessed one negative aspect
of the policy of decentralisation at Matsya. Virata had left the department of
defence solely to his brother-in-law Keechaka. Keechaka was a formidable
warrior and almost ran a parallel government at Matsya, often undermining
the authority of Virata himself.
I started to enlighten Virata with my own model of functioning, which
had become spectacularly successful when I independently ruled over
Indraprastha. In doing so, I had to keep in mind the priceless advice of
Dhaumya, our priest, not to go overboard while dealing with a king. My
natural humility helped me a lot in this regard. As I expected, Virata took
great interest and turned out to be a good learner. He gradually started
implementing some of my ideas. The results fast started showing up. The
kingdom of Matsya gradually started waking up to its potentials. Virata was
generous enough to recognise my contributions and heaped me with praises
and gifts. I used to share those gifts with my brothers and Draupadi secretly.
I became the closest confidante of King Virata. What pleased me most was
that my prominence did not cause envy in other members of the assembly,
who were equally appreciative of me.
My brothers and Draupadi were doing well too. Bheema impressed all
royal members and the king’s friends with his exceptional culinary skills. In
fact, I had never had the good luck of tasting Bheema’s dishes as much as I
got to taste now! They were really superb. In his spare time, he used to be
asked by the king to fight with the strongest wrestlers of the country and
would mat all of them with modicum of efforts. The king loved him very
much. He became a hit with the women as well!
Arjuna became extremely popular inside the palace. He regaled the
queen, her mother and sisters-in-law, cousins and female friends with his
magnificent singing and dancing. So absorbed became his students that they
even started conversing among themselves through songs. Arjuna seemed
to have strung the general mood of the entire palace in different musical
notes. Side by side, a very important thing happened to him in the process
that needs special mention. Princess Uttara, the only daughter of Virata, was
becoming to Arjuna the daughter he never had! On one moonlit night,
Arjuna, while talking with me in my room, revealed his secret desire to take
Uttara home as his daughter-in-law—as his dear Abhimanyu’s wife. In that
surreal moonlight, I saw a momentary glint of happiness in his face and in
mine he probably saw an ecstatic approval. We sighed together, unsure
about our own future and pondering if such a wishful thought would ever
become a reality.
The twins, too, were being regarded very highly for amazing
proficiencies in their respective fields. I had never seen horses perform the
kinds of acts Nakula made them to. Under Nakula’s supervision, horses of
Matsya started becoming as famous as Bahlika horses, quality-wise.
Sahadeva introduced a scientific method of cattle rearing and a new dairy
culture. During his time, the dairy products of Matsya started being
exported and became a major revenue-earner.
Sudeshna and Draupadi gelled reasonably well too, notwithstanding the
former’s insecurities. Draupadi was trying her level best to appear ordinary
by dressing unassumingly and giving herself an unkempt look. But can
piles of ashes obscure a fire? Her blazing charm exuded beyond her modest
get-up, making her a burning curiosity for almost everybody.
Still, everything was going along nicely at Matsya until a serious crisis
emerged.
The libertine eyes of Sudeshna’s brother Keechaka fell on Draupadi on
one fateful day!

-4-
‘Please get me this luscious woman by any means. She has made me insane
with lust. She makes me feel sick. I won’t feel better till I get her.’
That was what Keechaka said to his sister Sudeshna when he caught one
single glimpse of Draupadi for the first time, that too from a distance and
for only a few moments. Keechaka was a complete boor—a blunt, ruthless
warrior least troubled with ethical niceties. To him, women were no more
than pleasure objects. He would always have the woman he desired and was
not used to failures in this front. Draupadi became his obsession and he
started making shameless efforts to woo her. So reckless he became that he
even started making overtures publicly.
Keechaka’s doom was closing on him . Unfortunately for him, he did not
know one secret we all know now: Draupadi was forbidden! She was
doom! Keechaka, Duryodhana, Duhshasana, Shakuni, Karna, Jayadrath—
all would get to learn it at a hefty price.
In our secret meetings, Draupadi would regularly complain to us about
Keechaka’s indecent advances. We desperately restrained ourselves,
especially Bheema, waiting for the year to complete which would be the
end of our banishment. But with just a fortnight remaining of our sentence,
Keechaka compelled us to settle his case. He chased Draupadi straight into
the court of Virata in a desperate bid to get hold of her and—it still makes
me tremble with anger to recollect—kicked her!
Bheema was then standing just beside me. I immediately twined my
index finger with his, unnoticed by others, in a bid to restrain him. Any
open retaliation would have blown our cover. Bheema’s muscles tautened
and face twitched in uncontrollable anger. Keechaka was fortunate to have
survived another full day, even after kicking our queen!
Virata did not know how to react. Everyone present at the court started
reprimanding Keechaka for his obnoxious behaviour but that unabashed
scoundrel stood haughtily with hands akimbo, not showing even the
slightest sign of remorse. However, he made no further attemps to insult
her.
Once again, we had to endure Draupadi’s humiliation in a public
assembly. The time was different, so were the place and the circumstance;
yet our wretched fate remained hopelessly unchanged!
Draupadi had noticed me restrain Bheema. Before leaving the court, she
grunted, ‘A gambler and his obedient brothers have earned me such an
insult!’
I was used to her occasional rebuffs. I definitely deserved it. But I was
surprised that her brusque comment did not add to my pains any further. I
was gradually developing a thick skin. I was gradually becoming eligible to
make it really big in life!
A couple of days later, in the morning, when we found that horrible
mound of flesh daubed with dripping blood right in front of Keechaka’s
house, there was no way to recognise that as Keechaka’s corpse but for
some ornaments embedded into the flesh. I stared at Bheema’s handiwork
amidst various horror-struck exclamations all around. Bheema made me
feel jealous for once, almost the same way Arjuna had made me when he
had won Draupadi. I wished it were me instead of Bheema to have avenged
Draupadi’s humiliation in such a grotesque, yet perfectly befitting manner!
That was a revelation. I did not know when I changed so much, almost
beyond my own recognition. Earlier I quintessentially loathed acts of
macabrity, gore, violence, cruelties even in battlefields. But on that day I
beheld a brutally slain human carcass with a depraved pleasure and silently
appreciated the killer to the extent of feeling jealous of him! Such
transformation was unimaginable. But was it unwelcome? I still don’t
know.
Was I actually becoming a different person in an effort to appear
someone else? Was a certain Yudhisthira gradually sliding into the realm of
a sad nostalgia? Yudhisthira! Was the name whispered to me… from the
depth of oblivion?
Or, perhaps nothing had changed but the time and the priorities. Perhaps,
that blood-thirsty, revenge-seeking man was no less Yudhisthira than the
quiet man of peace that I knew myself to be was, except for the fact that the
former was my latent persona hitherto undiscovered.

-5-
Meanwhile, our own equations were also changing. Bheema’s steadfast
devotion was winning him Draupadi, slowly but surely, from Arjuna.
Bheema took her for another frontier to conquer, and went about it with
outstanding tenderness. It was quite surprising that an arrogant, intrepid,
reckless, maverick person like him could turn out to be such a caring,
patient, devoted and loving husband.
I can’t tell how Arjuna felt of this development or whether he at all felt
anything; or even was aware of it. But one thing evidently offended him.
Draupadi did not ask for his help to get rid of Keechaka—in fact, he was
the last of us to know of Keechaka’s death. Bheema not only killed
Keechaka, but also finished off his brothers as they tried to assault Draupadi
to avenge Keechaka’s death. On hearing the news from someone, Arjuna
ran up to her and asked with genuine concern, ‘Sairindhri , please do tell
me how you could get rid of Keechaka and his evil brothers?’
I was standing at a distance, yet could hear Draupadi’s reply quite
clearly: ‘You better enjoy your own time among those beautiful women
teaching them music and dance, Brihannala! Is it really necessary for you to
hear a sairindhri’s sad story?’
Arjuna mumbled something in his defence but I cannot remember what
he said. But I clearly remember how sullen he looked. I had faced
Draupadi’s curtness countless times before, now it was poor Arjuna’s turn,
for a change!
Bheema showed the world a simple truth. Minus his phenomenal
strength, he was a quite ordinary person as compared to myself and Arjuna,
with ordinary intellect and qualities, far removed from spiritual and
emotional complexities. Yet, his sincerity and honest dedication won
Draupadi’s heart overwhelmingly, which Arjuna’s brilliance and my
erudition could not. Arjuna’s failure was even more pathetic. He simply
squandered her away while just a little more commitment could have been
enough to hold his fort.
Keechaka’s sudden death created sensation even in the far off states.
Peculiar theories started doing the rounds regarding his ghastly murder. The
gruesome manner of the murder so typically demonstrated Bheema’s wrath
that I became wary that it might rip open our disguises.
Though that did not happen, events still took an uncomfortable turn, in a
different way. Matsya became quite vulnerable after Keechaka’s death. He,
being an accomplished warrior and excellent commander, had given a
daunting look to Virata’s army. His absence now provided a golden
opportunity to Trigarta, the sworn enemy of Matsya, to settle old scores.
 Susharma, the king of Trigarta, marched his army towards Virata’s
kingdom. We would soon learn that Susharma did not dare attack Matsya
alone. He had ganged up with none other than Duryodhana and got him into
action as well.
And fortuitous it surely was that on the very last day of our exile, the
armies of Trigarta and Hasitnapura had to lay siege on Matsya, from its
southern and northern sides respectively!
The Trigarta army reached the southern boundary of Matsya first, while
the Kauravas were still at some distance from the northern frontier.
King Virata reacted bravely and smartly. He issued an emergency and
ordered his brother to prepare the army. Virata’s eldest son Shankha, too,
geared up for the battle. Unluckily for Virata, he missed the service of his
second son Shveta, who was perhaps the most promising warrior in the
kingdom. He was probably on a study tour abroad at that time.
We were in a dilemma. Should we join the war or refrain, safely
spending the last day of our banishment maintaining our disguises? I had a
hurried discussion with Bheema, Nakula and Sahadeva and decided to join
the fight under our respective disguises. Arjuna was left out just because of
his disguise of a eunuch. Leaving him behind in the city would later prove
to be an extremely wise decision because unknown to us, a massive
Kaurava army was already within five kroshas from the unguarded northern
front.
I soon realised that our participation was very much necessary. The
Trigarta warriors ran through the formation of Virata’s army straightaway.
Absence of Keechaka was bitterly felt. Susharma and Virata got engaged in
an intense duel. Initially, they appeared equally matched but gradually
Susharma started to overpower Virata. Virata’s chariot was shattered and
the charioteer got killed. Susharma rushed to a fallen Virata and held him
captive. Shataneeka, the brother of Virata who was commanding the army
was also defeated by Susharma’s brother. Shankha was injured and had to
retreat. The Matsya army was in absolute disarray.
But that was not Susharma’s day as we happened to be present there on
the field. Nakula, Sahadeva and I quickly regrouped a section of the Matsya
army and led a spirited counter-attack taking the Trigartas by surprise.
Bheema chased Susharma who had kept Virata captive. Susharma turned
his chariot back and charged towards Bheema. Bheema killed Susharma’s
charioteer and bodyguards. Virata too, smelling an opportunity, broke free
of his bondage and started fighting with a renewed vigour. Susharma put up
a brave fight but Bheema was too much for him. He gave Susharma a sound
thrashing with a wooden club. Even Susharma’s mighty brothers could not
come to his rescue. Soon, Susharma fell unconscious on the ground.
Bheema held him a prisoner and dragged him to Virata.
Matsya clinched yet another resounding victory over its bitterest rival.
Virata looked at me, with eyes gleaming with smile and happiness. I
understood his intentions. He did not want to take him prisoner, nor did he
want to punish him. I liked Virata’s leniency. I asked Bheema to leave
Susharma. Bheema, with a puckered face—obviously our kindness was not
to his liking—freed Susharma giving him an earful. I could not help
laughing as I heard what Bheema muttered angrily, ‘I see this old man
(Virata, obviously) is just another hopeless goody like you!’ Poor
Susharma, the battered and humiliated warrior, bowed to us and left the
battlefield leaving his ambitious mission unaccomplished for one more
time.
Virata was so overwhelmed that he went as far as offering me his royal
throne! I hid a smile. I was already aware of Virata’s tendency to swing
between emotional extremities. Probably Balarama was the only other
person I knew of who could have sprung up almost similar reckless
ebullience, with much greater impact though. However, I could only tender
a polite refusal, ‘Your Majesty, your throne can only be yours. It is a matter
of great honour for us that we could come of little help when it mattered.’
Virata embraced me.
Our victorious army started returning towards our capital in a euphoric
mood. I was feeling over the moon at that time. Not only could we return
favour to our benefactor in style but, much more importantly, that
remarkable day happened to be the last day of our ordeal that had started
thirteen years ago.
But completely unprepared were we to digest the news that was awaiting
us. As soon as we entered the city, we came to know that the Kauravas had
laid siege on the northern frontier of Virata’s kingdom. And what made the
king freeze was the information that his youngest son Uttar had set out to
stop the mighty Kauravas!
 -6-
It took some time to sink in. Prince Uttar at war! He was a pampered,
carefree and foppish princekin whose favourite pastime was playing the
flute, teasing his sister Uttara and flirting with aristocrat women. He had to
undergo the customary arms training but never showed any kind of promise.
But he used to make up with a ludicrous bravado. Notwithstanding his lack
of any serious worth, he was a lovable boy with an endearing innocence and
cuteness. His going to war, that too against a ferocious Kaurava army with
the likes of Pitamaha Bheeshma, Acharya Drona, Kripa, Karna,
Ashwatthama, Duryodhana upfront, was much the same as his doom.
Virata started mourning Uttar’s death, though no such news actually
came as yet. Shataneek and Shankha prepared the army again to rush
towards the north. I was feeling extremely tense though did not display it. I
was not sure whether we were sufficiently prepared to take on the
formidable Kauravas. The Kauravas were a very different proposition from
the Trigartas—even a child knew that.
Suddenly, I heard an old woman lamenting with a raucous drawl, ‘O god,
please save the poor boy!…He is so young!…He does not have a proper
charioteer either. He has got only that eunuch Brihannala driving his cart!’
I got a violent start. Brihannala driving Uttar’s chariot! That meant Uttar
had gone to war in Arjuna’s company!
I cannot describe how light I felt at that moment. With Arjuna by his
side, Uttar must be as safe as he had been in his mother’s lap. The first thing
I did was to rush to a moaning Virata and assured him of his young son’s
safety.
Virata looked a little surprised, and slightly vexed.
‘Aren’t you being too cocksure, Kanka? Do you have any idea who these
Kauravas are? How can my little son withstand their attack? He does not
have an army, not even a regular charioteer; only a eunuch is driving his
vehicle around! There is no way my poor boy can survive this unequal
contest!’ Virata relapsed into sobbing.
My voice sounded steely to my own ears, ‘Get up, King. Prepare to greet
your victorious son who must be on his way back by now, completing the
war. If anyone has the good luck to have Brihannala as his charioteer, he
just can’t be defeated by anyone.’
I deliberately put a disproportionate emphasis on the name ‘Brihannala’
to drive my point home. We had had enough of our fake identities. Yes! It
was high time the world knew again who we actually were!
Virata got up, absolutely dumbfounded. My conviction and slightly
haughty confidence appeared to him quite amiss and he was confused.
More than relief, curiosity sprang up in his mind which was clearly readable
from his expressions. He exclaimed in a strange, oblique tone, ‘I have never
heard of any transgender fighting a war, let alone winning it!’
I felt as if someone poured molten lead into my ears. I took it as an insult
on my illustrious brother. I was about to let loose a scathing reply.
But I did not have to.
Two messengers galloped into the city riding on horses, coming from the
south. They looked agog with excitement. Virata stared at them holding his
breath and waited for the bad news to be delivered. But I observed no
sadness in their expressions. Coming closer to us, they shouted at the top of
their voices, gasping for air due to excitement and exhaustion.
‘Hark! Hark! Prince Uttar—has—defeated—the— great—Kauravas—
single-handedly! He has saved Matsya from a certain disaster.’
Virata sprang up. It was for everyone now to witness his frenzied
celebrations in stark contrast to his wild wailings just some moments back.
He danced on the street with glee, embraced everybody around him even
including a leper who was standing nearby expecting to get some alms,
shouted praises for his brave son’s astounding feat and announced
handsome rewards for the messengers who brought the news. Calming
down, Virata ordered his men to prepare for a grand reception to welcome
his triumphant son already on his way back. Then he grabbed my shoulder
and dragged me inside his courtroom to do what he enjoyed most—playing
a game of dice with me!
During the game, Virata said: ‘Kanka, today my joy knows no limits. I
still can’t believe what my little son has done!’
‘Your Majesty, your son has done well by his standards, no doubt. But
please allow me to say, if someone goes to war with Brihannala in front, he
can only return victorious.’
 Virata’s combustible temper was about to catch fire. ‘Kanka you can’t
snatch my son’s credit away to glorify a bloody eunuch! Once more you
show such temerity, you will be in for serious trouble I tell you!’ Virata’s
face became crimson with anger.
‘Sir, I do not want to take away anything from your son but only allow
me to inform you that the indomitable Kauravas can be overpowered by
none but the one you called a “bloody eunuch” just now!’ How could I have
digested such a defamatory aspersion to Arjuna!
Virata flew into a rage and did something absolutely outrageous. He
picked up the ivory dices from the board and hurled at me. I was hit on the
nose and started bleeding profusely. Draupadi was standing nearby. She
rushed to me with a pot in her hand and kept it under my nose to hold the
streaming blood. I looked up at her face. I saw two pearl-like tear drops
about to stream down from the corner of her eyes. Her lips were trembling
in an attempt to hold back a sob. I felt no pain any more. Her genuine, little
concerns were still a panacea for me.
But it could have been the sure end for Virata had Arjuna seen me in such
a state. Prince Uttar and Arjuna arrived just then. I indicated Draupadi to let
only Uttar in and keep Arjuna outside. Draupadi did exactly so and
managed to keep Arjuna out of the room somehow. Uttar entered the room
alone and addressed his father in a sombre, composed tone, ‘Father, I was
lucky enough not to be killed or harmed by the Kauravas. An angel
suddenly descended from heaven and performed unbelievable feats on the
battlefield in our favour. He beat the mighty Kauravas hollow and drove
them away from our land.’
Slightly deflated, Virata asked him where that angel was.
‘He will be in front of you tomorrow, Father. We shall be blessed to have
him in our midst.’
Arjuna must have tutored Uttar well to describe events this way.
We became ourselves the next day, marking the end of our banishment
for thirteen years.
Virata once again became crazy, this time with ecstasy. He could not
believe his good luck that the illustrious Pandavas had chosen his kingdom
to spend the last year of their exile in! He also apologised repeatedly to us
for the misdeeds of Keechaka and his own violent outburst on me. But there
was absolutely no necessity for his apologies as all of us had already
accepted Virata as our most trusted friend and ally. Virata, by sheer virtue of
his exemplary goodness and an uncomplicated approach to life, had already
won our hearts overwhelmingly.
But his offer stupefied us. He requested Arjuna to marry Princess Uttara
and asked me for my approval! It was so unexpected that for some moments
we five brothers were left speechless and kept exchanging meaningless
glances between ourselves. Then our eyes fell on Draupadi, simultaneously.
She was staring unblinkingly at Arjuna with an oblique expression on her
face. All of Arjuna’s previous marriages had been like red-hot shafts
stabbing her heart. She prepared for another blow from her most beloved
husband.
I remembered that magical night when Arjuna had revealed to me his
fancy to see Uttara and Abhimanyu holding each other’s hands. Arjuna’s
graceful response to Virata’s proposal made me proud of him and I did not
miss the hushed sigh of Draupadi which was obviously one of relief.
‘King Virata, your daughter used to cosy up to me with a disarming
innocence free of any inhibition. She used to feel very safe with me even at
wee hours in the privacy of a room due to my assumed guise of a eunuch
and trusted me like a child. For me also, she never troubled my manhood
notwithstanding our physical proximity. She is like a daughter to me, King.’
‘That means you decline to marry her, Arjuna?’ Virata frowned.
‘Yes, because I know who her match is! Can’t you accept my son
Abhimanyu as your son-in-law, O noble King Virata?’
There was a spontaneous applause from everyone present there. Bheema
started dancing around with Nakula trying in vain to restrain him. Virata
embraced Arjuna. Sahadeva clutched my arms and hurt me with his long
nails! Prince Uttar started playing his flute with funnily misplaced musical
notes! His eldest brother Shankha, a very composed, reserved youth, kept
on clapping. It seemed that an invisible volcano of happiness suddenly
erupted there.
Draupadi wiped tears of joy from her eyes. After a long time, I found her
visibly happy. Though she did not bear Abhimanyu in her womb, she was
no less his mother than Subhadra was.
I closed my eyes. I felt numerous crystals of happiness silently rolling
down my body. After years of despair, I finally saw that fleeting illusion of
hope which makes a human life such an absorbing, gripping addiction
despite heartbreaks and failures.
‘Kanka’ was not just a disguise for me. It cut the bonds Yudhisthira had
kept himself tied with. The truthful Yudhisthira had spent the whole year on
cleverly contrived lies to live up an imaginary character. I realised the
sanctity of deceptions! With that priceless lesson, I would now emerge a
person very different from the Yudhisthira of the past who had been a
pathetic loser. I would now have to embark on a belligerent pursuit to fight
back.
I took a deep, long breath in.
 12
On the Warpath

-1-
‘

I
think Duryodhana and Shakuni should not be blamed for the debacle
the Pandavas had to face. The Pandavas themselves are to be blamed!
Shakuni defeated Yudhisthira in straight pasha games. What wrong did
Shakuni do? It was utterly foolish of Yudhisthira who has absolutely no
skills at dice games to play against an expert like Shakuni. Anyway, let
bygones be bygones. Mind you, Duryodhana must not be made angry
because he is more powerful now. Yudhisthira should try to please
Duryodhana with humble requests. The Pandavas should send emissary to
Duryodhana to make peace.’
Balarama’s crass comments not only stunned us, they actually infuriated
us!
The marriage of Abhimanyu and Uttara had taken place only a day
before. The air was filled with happiness. Our exile had already been over
and we were now eligible to get back our property. We were seated at the
assembly hall in Upaplabya (the capital of Matsya) and an informal
conference was going on as to what our next course of action should be.
Besides us, Krishna, Balarama, Satyaki, Pradyumna, Shamba, Drupada,
Virata himself, his sons, Abhimanyu and our sons were present at the
meeting.
Krishna had talked first. He proposed to send a messenger to Hastinapura
immediately. As we were still in the dark about Duryodhana’s intentions,
we were not in a position to decide what to do. It was important for us to
know Duryodhana’s plans and then react accordingly. If he was ready to
return to us our land as promised, well and good. But if he was not, we
would have to prepare for war. Everybody supported Krishna’s idea.
Then Balarama started to give us a piece of his mind. The problem with
him was that he was never a prudent thinker. His confused judgements often
missed the right perspective. Though he was widely respected, he was never
much heeded. Balarama sometimes behaved like Bheema. But he could be
easily moulded by Krishna who knew very well how to change opinion of
his scatterbrained elder brother.
But now, Balarama’s ridiculous statement annoyed, if not incensed,
everybody. Krishna moved his palm over his face in order to hide
embarrassment. Satyaki stood up and launched a vituperative verbal assault
on Balarama, unmindful of the latter’s seniority.
Had he been anybody else other than Satyaki, Balarama would surely
have done something rash. Instead, he sat sulking and heaved stormy
breaths instead, for Satyaki was his favourite. But we all admired Satyaki
for his courage and reckless support for us. I looked at that handsome
young man, the foremost among top Yadava warriors, with love in my eyes.
His role model was Arjuna and he used to follow Krishna like his shadow.
Both Arjuna and Krishna had highest regards for him and they always urged
their sons Abhimanyu and Pradyumna to emulate Satyaki. But we were not
aware when Satyaki had involved himself so intensely with our cause.
King Drupada, our father-in-law, stood up. I was little scared to see him
stand up. He was looking extremely peeved with Balarama. I was afraid
that Drupada, an impetuous bruiser himself, might kick-start an ugly debate
with him. Though Balarama had done well by not reacting to Satyaki’s
comments, he might not show the same restraint for Drupada. Thank God,
Drupada was in his composed best that day. He, quite sensibly, addressed
Satyaki rather than Balarama.
‘O mighty Satyaki, I am sure Duryodhana will never return the property.
I suggest that my personal priest, who is extremely intelligent, be sent to
Hastinapura for placing our demands. King Virata may advise my priest
what to tell them. And by the way, I firmly disagree with the opinion of our
beloved Balarama (casting a furtive glance at him)!’
Everyone supported Drupada’s proposal. We all knew that sending any
mission to Hastinapura would be useless but still it was needed as an
evidence of our genuine interest in peace. We would have to make serious
efforts now to amass a sizeable army. The war seemed unavoidable.

-2-
We rushed messengers to all directions for securing support from potential
allies. It soon became clear that we were in a disadvantageous position.
While we had been languishing in forests, Duryodhana consolidated his
position by striking a friendship with most of the important powers. But
thanks to his conceit and bossy attitude, he had picked up some resentment
as well. Still, many kings turned down our offer stating their long friendship
with Duryodhana. However, some responded favourably, too. Dhrishtaketu
of Chedi promised us his support. So did Sahadeva of Magadha. Ironically,
both of their fathers, Shishupal and Jarasandha respectively, had been killed
by us! The Pandyas and the Cholas were on our side. A faction of the
Kekayas too agreed to help us. Thanks to my marital tie with Princess
Devika, her father Govasana’s Shivi force was on our side. The king of
Kashi, whose daughter Balandhara had been married to our Bheema, had
obliged us by sending his massive troops for our use even before we sent a
formal request.
One fine morning, we were thrilled to see an exotic-looking youth with a
face much similar to Arjuna’s. He introduced himself as Iravana, the son of
Arjuna and Ulupi. That was only for the second time we saw him. The first
time we had seen him was more than a score of years back when he was a
child. Now he was not alone, moreover. A large army of the formidable
Naga soldiers was waiting outside the city of Upaplabya. Iravana showed
his army to Arjuna, stating, ‘It is my mother’s gift to you, Father. Please
have it.’ Arjuna could not resist tears.
Meanwhile, King Virata, our noble host, had started a massive
programme of expansion and reorganisation of his own Matsya army which
was to fight for us. He designated a number of officials with the only task of
recruiting army personnels from all over his kingdom. Drupada had, in the
meantime, gone back to Panchala and was preparing his army under
Dhrishtadyumna’s command. Drupada and Dhrishtadyumna did another
great thing. They formed an alliance with the Srinjayas and the Somakas—
two estranged sub-clans of the Panchalas and were all set to field a massive,
unified Panchala army.
There was more good news coming. Bheema received a message from
Ghatotkacha that he had already won unanimous support of all the
Rakshasa tribes of the north-east and the eastern sides and was on the way
with an enormous army of monsters under his command. The news pleased
me greatly. I would get to see my favourite Ghatotkacha after a long time.
Irony it was that the looming war caused a blissful family reunion!
Though the Yadavas did not officially pledge allegiance, our dear Satyaki
—a Vrishni chieftain himself—came in our support on his own with the
second biggest contingent of the great Yadava army (the biggest being the
Narayani Sena that Krishna would give away to Duryodhana). However,
that was expected from Satyaki.
Our force was gradually building up. But our spies came back from
Hastinapura with an unnerving piece of information.
Duryodhana was marshalling a staggering military machinery. The entire
kingdom of Hastinapura was already cram-full by the soldiers coming in
from various vassal states of the Kauravas. Massive armies from
Duryodhana’s allies were already on the way to Hastinapura and King
Dhritarashtra was busy making frenetic arrangements to accommodate them
in friendly neighbouring provinces. The spies reported that the size of the
already assembled troops was prodigious though it was only a small portion
of the entire bulk of force expected to gather. Bhagadatta leading the hilly
Kirata and Pragjyotisha battalions, Bhurishrava with the Bahlika force, the
Bhojas, the Andhakas, Jayadrath with the combined soldiery of Sindhu and
Saubira, King Sudakshin of Kamboja, King Neel of Mahishmati with most
of the Deccan powers, the Abanti empire, the Anga and Kalinga armies
under Karna and the mighty Shrutayudha, the vengeful Trigartas—all threw
their weights behind Duryodhana.
The preparation of the enemy was enough to make me panic. To make
matters worse, Shalya, the mighty king of Madra, was tricked by
Duryodhana into joining his side. Shalya was coming all the way from
Madra with his large army to join us. He was the maternal uncle of Nakula
and Sahadeva, being the brother of their Mother Madri. His support or
sympathy for us was beyond doubt. But on his way, some officers sent by
Duryodhana met and pleased him with grandiose hospitality. Shalya, the
uncomplicated man that he was, took the officers for our men and pledged
to give his best efforts to see their master win! Then it was disclosed that
they were Duryodhana’s men. Shalya was seriously embarrassed but he was
also a man of his words. He came to meet us alone and apologetically
informed that he would not be fighting for us, but against us.
‘But O noble son of Pandu, nothing can take my blessings away from
you. You are going to be victorious, come what may.’ Before leaving us,
Shalya promised to me that he would try to sabotage the Kauravas by
deliberately confusing Karna.
Thus we missed the great Shalya and services of his one akshauhini-
strong army.
It was becoming clear that the Kaurava strength would be much greater
than ours. Not only numerically superior, Duryodhana’s army would boast
warriors like Karna, Bhurishrava, Ashwatthama, Bhagadatta, Shalya,
Alambusha, Alayudha, Jayadrath and the likes, besides the phenomenal
Pitamaha Bheeshma, Dronacharya and Kripacharya—who, in all
probability, would take up arms in Duryodhana’s support. We were
definitely the underdogs.
‘I should formally approach Krishna now. We should not forget his son
Shamba is married to Duryodhana’s daughter. Duryodhana too has some
rights on him. We must have Krishna with us on field, at any cost,’ cried
Arjuna, sensing that the odds were heavily loaded against us.
Arjuna was right. Though it was crystal clear that Krishna was on our
side, we badly needed to field him. But would he take up arms? Should a
god take part in a contest of humans? Would that be fair? But what other
role than that of a warrior could he take up to stay on the battleground?
How could we win this war without him in our midst?
Arjuna set out for Dwarka forthwith to meet Krishna. We were waiting
breathlessly for his return. Within a fortnight, he would come back all
smiles and was looking insanely happy.
‘The war is won, brother! Krishna will be on the field with us although
he will not fight. Guess what he will do on the battleground? He will be
driving my chariot!’ exclaimed Arjuna on his return from Dwarka.
Arjuna and Duryodhana, fortuitously, had reached Dwarka almost at the
same time.
 Both asked for Krishna’s support. Krishna placed two options before
them—one would get only an unarmed Krishna who would not fight, the
other his unbeatable army, famously known as the Narayani sena . As
Krishna saw Arjuna first, he asked Arjuna to choose first. Arjuna chose an
unarmed Krishna. Duryodhana was happy to get the army.
Probably the fate of the war had been sealed at the very moment we
snatched Krishna away from the Kauravas—well before the first arrow was
shot.
The strength of all our forces eventually added up to seven akshauhinis
but when Sahadeva estimated the Kaurava strength, an anxious silence
descended in the secret cabinet chamber of King Virata where we were
discussing strategies. It was eleven akshauhinis ! Eleven akshauhinis ! Our
army would look too modest when pitted against the ocean-like Kaurava
army.
‘Never mind, friends! We have the most precious thing of the universe.
We have Krishna. And mind you, our Arjuna has the Pashupat astra in his
quiver. No holder of the Pashupat has ever finished a war being on the
losing side!’ I cried aloud, pummeling my clenched fist on the golden
handrest of my seat. King Virata, his ministers and my brothers roared in
unison.
One thing we swore then and there. Fight we would till our last,
regardless of our enemy’s strength!

-3-
We felt that we were resigning ourselves too early to the inevitability of a
furious civil war. Amidst extensive military preparations, we still had the
good sense that peace must be given a chance. We must not wait for
Duryodhana to take any peace initiave; rather the onus was on us to
conceive a way to stop the carnage in the offing.
I sent a message to Dhritarashtra through Sanjaya that if he did not want
to part with our Indraprastha, then we would be happy with only a province
of his kingdom, or if even that sounded too much, then he might give us as
little as five villages, namely Kushasthal, Brikasthal, Makandi, Varanavata
and any one other village—one each to us five brothers.
 According to the opinion of my brothers, it was nothing but my typically
stupid and self-destructive largesse. But I still believe otherwise. Even
today, my brothers are yet to understand the shrewdness lying beneath the
apparently generous proposal. Only Krishna got me right.
Had Duryodhana agreed to my demand of five villages, it could have
been disastrous for him. His kingdom would have been perforated by five
enemy enclaves inside it. Years ago we had been given away
Khandavprastha as a share of my father’s kingdom. If we had been able to
turn that godforsaken land into a baffling city of Indraprastha, we could
well have created five formidable forces out of as many developing villages
as well—all inside Hastinapura threatening the very sovereignty of
Duryodhana’s kingdom. I knew Duryodhana would never accept my offer.
He did not, indeed. Hearing my proposal, he apparently remarked, ‘The
modest demand of five villages clearly demonstrates that the coward
Pandavas are quaking with nervousness. Why should we concede even that
small a territory to an enemy who is already dead with fear? Listen
everybody! Without being defeated in war, I will not even renounce as
much land as a needle can hold!’
His henchmen and advisors believed Duryodhana squandered away a
golden opportunity of clinching a bloodless victory, giving away only a
minimal concession to us. They blamed Duryodhana’s arrogance for it.
Actually, he did well by rejecting my proposal. Ironically, for once his
mindless hubris stood him in good stead, by saving him from stepping into
my wily trap.
But there was only one who was capable of taking on the challenge of the
time. We knew him. Rather, we had him. He was none other than Krishna
the god! I approached to him with folded hands.
‘O Madhava, just tell me what to do now. Tell us how to serve our
dharma and our interest alike. We neither want to forego the rights over our
legitimate property, nor do we want a blood fest. Any war is sinful and
inflicts losses on both sides. Please do show us the way out of this morass.’
‘I must give it a try. I shall go to Hastinapura myself with a peace offer. It
will be my greatest achievement if I can make the two sides mend fences, of
course without harming your interest a bit,’ Krishna said in a ponderous,
solemn voice.
 The sun was about to set then, lending a reddish hue to the contours of
his face.
It seemed ominous to me. I did not know how it struck me that the red
light scattered by the setting sun was a symbol of imminent bloodshed. My
legendary intuition whispered to me that Krishna’s peace mission would not
be successful and worse, he would run into danger. My concern for
Krishna’s well-being flowed over other immediate thoughts. For once, I
forgot about his divinity and earnestly requested him not to visit
Hastinapura lest those wicked men insult or harm him. Though that was
utterly foolish of me, I was not the least ashamed of my unreasonable fear
for Krishna because love itself loves to be chased by worry.
But Krishna did not change his mind. ‘My going there is necessary to
prove that we are not war-mongers. We should try our best to work out
negotiations, though my hunch is that all our efforts are going to fall flat,
given the attitude of your cousins!’
Arjuna, Nakula and I asked Krishna to approach the Kauravas the way it
deemed appropriate. Sahadeva requested him to ensure war, for that would
give us an opportunity to avenge our sufferings. But what Bheema said
sounded unbelievable. He talked peace! In a choked voice, the mightiest
man on earth said that Krishna should not intimidate the Kauravas and must
devise a formula for peace by whatever means. ‘Please see that the great
Bharata dynasty is not destroyed! Get Pitamaha and other seniors to blow
some sense into Duryodhana. None of us wants a war.’ I had never heard
Bheema speak so softly.
What happened to our volcanic brother?
Even Krishna was not surprised any less. Finally, Draupadi held her
enormous plait of hair in her hand and showed it to Krishna.
‘Krishna, when you will plead for an amicable solution, just remember
how that nasty Duhshasana grabbed me by this hair and dragged me into the
court. If Bheema or Arjuna still push for peace, then my old father and
brave brothers will fight the Kauravas. My sons and Abhimanyu will also
fight for my honour. My blazing heart cannot be calmed until I see that
hand of Duhshasana severed from his body! God knows how I spent these
thirteen years with a simmering anger, and now even Bheema here wants
peace! It’s a shame on Arjuna’s archery skill, it’s a shame on Bheema’s
might that Duryodhana is still alive!’
 Draupadi broke into tears. That moment I knew there could not be peace
any more. Tears of a vengeance-seeking woman sealed the fate of our Kuru
house. Our efforts for a negotiation was but a mere obligatory formality.
The war had already become settled behind our pursuit for peace.
Krishna consoled Draupadi with the promise of a terrible battle. ‘If
Dhritarashtra’s sons refuse to obey me, they are dead. Carrion-eaters will
feast on their mangled remains. The ones who have earned Draupadi’s ire
will all be slain alongwith their kinsfolk. Have my word of honour
Draupadi, and wipe your tears. Very soon your husbands will bring the
world to your feet.’

-4-
Krishna set out for Hastinapura accompanied by Satyaki, as a last-ditch
attempt for an amicable settlement. Only the naivest was hopeful of a
positive outcome. I had an impression that Krishna himself wanted war. A
peace accord was not going to hand over the befitting punishment
Duryodhana and his gang made themselves worth.
Actually, I was confused. I did not know exactly what was good for us.
Was only getting our own share back good enough? What about the
humiliation and deprivation that scourged us all these years? Despite being
born in a great Kshatriya family, we had allowed our enemy to do us great
harm. Would it add to our glory if we let them off unpunished and be
content with only our admissible share just like petty officials of a king’s
executive, content with just their due honorarium? My mind was changing
colour like a chameleon. Sometimes I thought peace was the best
alternative, but almost immediately it occurred to me that retribution was no
less important.
Krishna would return from Hastinapura with a grim face. ‘We have got a
war at our hands, brothers and friends. And this war will be of a kind and
magnitude unseen to the world as yet. Prepare for it,’ Krishna announced
with a stony face and disappeared without any further annotation into the
plush chamber specially fashioned for him by Queen Sudeshna (King
Virata’s wife), leaving us agog with curiosity.
 Satyaki gave us a detailed account of the events in Hastinapura. Despite
Krishna’s earnest appeal to Dhritarashtra and other Kaurava stalwarts, no
agreement could be reached. Duryodhana had adamantly stood his ground
and apparently repeated his notorious comment made to Sanjaya just a few
days ago, ‘I will not give away the Pandavas even as much land as a needle
can dig up!’ And his coterie of hoodlums had erupted into a loud adulation.
Satyaki was trembling with anger while narrating it. Poor Satyaki did not
know exactly what kind of pervert those people were, so it was beyond his
imagination. We were not much surprised, though. But surprise was in store
for us too when Satyaki broke the news that they had plotted to hold
Krishna captive!
‘Are you mad?’ shouted Arjuna, springing up from his seat.
‘I am not. But certainly your cousins of Hastinapura are!’ Satyaki said
contemptuously. ‘But personally, I am grateful to them!’
I said to him impatiently, if not little rudely, ‘Why the hell are you
creating a conundrum here Satyaki? We want to know what those ruffians
did to our Krishna!’
‘How can they do anything to our Krishna, Prince Yudhisthira? What
Krishna did there was a sight of a lifetime rather! I am grateful to
Duryodhana because it was his obstinacy that brought out the real form of
Krishna. Oh! What a sight that was!’
We tried to envisage that jaw-dropping phenomenon through his
description only.
‘Krishna’s stature suddenly grew tenfold and went straight through the
roof of the hall! His body was sending forth blinding light and sweltering
heat. Everybody raised two palms to cover their eyes from the heat. Lord
Brahma appeared on his forehead. Lord Shiva was seen on his bosom as if
carved on the great expanse of his rock hard chest. Lord Agni manifested
inside his gaping mouth. With his every single breath a torch of fire was
being shot out from his mouth. Many other gods including Lord Indra were
also seen coming out of his limbs. The colossal figure of our very own
Krishna got infinitely frightening with the sudden emergence of a thousand
hands and legs and as many pairs of eyes on his body. Even the blind King
Dhritarashtra could see all these through a divine vision temporarily granted
to him.’
 Satyaki ceased talking and let himself fall on a nearby seat. He was still
animated and guzzled down a chaliceful of water in a single draught. It was
not easy for anybody, not even for a devout votary of Krishna like Satyaki,
to describe the inscrutable scene. After showing his true mettle, Krishna had
come down to his normal self and left the hall in a huff. Behind him was
quenched the last hope for peace.
We all were sitting reactionless. Though we all had guessed that the war
could not be averted, it was official now. I noticed Arjuna unmindfully
stretch out his right hand and grip his Gandiva tightly.
‘Fight them, boys! Hone your weapons. Butcher the tyrants now, no
second thought!’
A spine-chilling battle cry bellowed out from the depth of my belly,
taking everybody by a pleasant surprise.
 13
A Cruel Family Reunion!

-1-

I
t was the pleasant month of Agrahayan . The weather was affable. Trees
were full of fruits and flowers. The sky was clear, bedecked with fluff of
white clouds. The breeze was charming enough to seduce anyone into
fanciful reveries. But Krishna advised us to declare war on the
auspicious day of amavasya in this very month. According to him, the
climate during this month is not only good for dreams but for fights as well!
I sent a formal missive to Duryodhana to this effect, informing him that
we wanted to start the offensive on the new moon day only after seven
days.
Frenetic preparations for the war began. Our allies had already gathered
around the neighbouring province of Matsya (where we had been staying
since our agyatvaas days). We gave them a rousing reception. I saw
hundreds of thousands young, strapping, armoured, helmeted soldiers
assembled there, who had come all the way from their far-flung countries to
our aid.
We divided our seven akshauhini -strong army into seven equal divisions
and placed them under commands of Drupada, Virata, Dhrishtadyumna,
Shikhandi, Satyaki, Chekitana and Bheema. A little debate followed as to
who among them should be made the chief commander. Nakula wanted
Drupada as the chief, Sahadeva named Virata and Bheema voted for
Shikhandi. Arjuna suggested Dhrishtadyumna’s name. I asked for Krishna’s
advice. Krishna seconded Arjuna’s proposal and Dhrishtadyumna, our
brave brother-in-law, was unanimously appointed as the General. Arjuna
was made the Supreme Commander of the army who would only be
answerable to Krishna. Bheema was given a complete free-hand. He was to
be unleashed on our enemies no strings attached like a ferocious predator.
We decided to keep him almost free from any strategic regulations for
utilising his raw visceral passion to the deadliest effect.
We, alongwith our entire army, started advancing towards Kurukshetra—
the mutually agreed location near Hastinapura where the two armies would
meet head on. Draupadi and other women were left behind at Upaplabya
itself.
Surprisingly, the long march was a pleasant one. There was no dearth of
enthusiasm among the common soldiers. It seemed they were out on a
pleasure jaunt alongwith friends and peers. There were loud chanting of
battle hymns, deafening blows of trumpets and conchs, clatter of weapons,
rattles of chariot wheels and other wooden vehicles, sounds of horses and
elephants. The mood was terrific, the spirit through the sky. Our large,
raging army was progressing like a storm-tossed sea flowing from the
kingdom of Matsya towards Kurukshetra.
We reached the Hiranwati river and camped on its bank. Soon, countless
tents crammed the vast expanse that had hitherto seemed endless. Our
soldiers, numerous enough to fill up a kingdom of moderate size, suddenly
turned the peaceful, quiet, serene place into a nest of unbridled business.
Not only were there military professionals, but also a big legion of
musicians, dancers, comedians and comfort women—all with the singular
objective of keeping those brave men entertained before their trysts with
death.
Meanwhile, Balarama paid us a surprise visit. He was accompanied by a
few Yadava aristocrats. Though we received them with due honour,
Balarama looked very sad. His attachment to the Kuru family was so strong
that he could never come to terms with the idea of a civil war. Moreover, he
did not quite approve of Krishna’s unhindered preference for us; rather he
had wanted Krishna to help Duryodhana and us alike.
‘You shall win, Yudhisthira—rest assured. The side that adorns Krishna
cannot lose. I wanted to help Duryodhana too, but you know I can never go
against my dear brother Krishna. So I will not be a part of this war. I will
rather go for some pilgrimage instead,’ said Balarama. His presence was
never very comfortable for us. Though we respected and appreciated his
nobility, his course of thinking was often in conflict with ours. Honestly
speaking, I felt relieved at his decision of non-alignment. Arjuna and
Krishna exchanged quick glances. There were no signs of any hurt in
Krishna’s eyes either; evidently he welcomed his beloved elder brother’s
decision to stay out of the squabble.

-2-
Spies had more information for us. The Kaurava army had already reached
the eastern ridge of Kurukshetra. Though it was quite expected, but still
when I learnt that Duryodhana had appointed Pitamaha as the supreme
commander, did I get a terrible flinch! Pitamaha Bheeshma would shoot
arrows at us! We would have to strike him with deadly weapons! I knew the
first arrow to be fired at him from us would be too gentle to harm even a
child but then the orgy of the war would gradually overwhelm us and even
make us bay for his blood some day. Would the same thing happen to
Pitamaha also? Would this confounded hate culture corrupt our noble
Pitamaha ’s benevolence as well?
We could not indulge ourselves with such delicate thoughts for long as
Uluka, the eldest and the most favourite son of Shakuni, came to us with a
bitter message from Duryodhana. Duryodhana’s actual motive was to play
mind games before the war in order to disintegrate us mentally. It was a
common practice in those days. But, in effect, he actually did us a great
service by making our resolve rock-hard. We became more hateful, more
desperate to crush all the bridges of blood relation with a cruel disregard.
The furious, wayward prince never quite understood where and how he
himself lost the plot!
Still today, the venomous words of Uluka stiffen my jaws. He likened me
to that proverbial cat who had cheated his own kinsmen for survival.
Bheema was addressed as ‘glutton’ and ‘a hornless, moronic ox’. Arjuna’s
archery skills were ridiculed. ‘Even hundreds of Arjunas and thousands of
Krishnas will have to run for cover with Duryodhana raining arrows on
them.’ The diatribe was particularly insulting for Krishna. With a deadpan
face, Uluka parroted word by word what he had been tutored to tell
Krishna, ‘Like many eunuchs assuming fake manhood, you wear your
contrived godliness. Beneath this, you are only a bloody slave of Kamsa the
great! You are an upstart, having been shot into sudden fame. You are a
petty magician feigning divinity. We are also capable of working magic, but
don’t deign to stoop that low! You can’t scare us.’
A deathly silence descended when Uluka stopped. I myself was too angry
to react. The same was the case with others too as nobody could speak for
some time. Uluka, who had clearly prepared well to learn Duryodhana’s
words by heart and rattle them off verbatim, started feeling nervous now
and was probably cursing himself for his meaningless loyalty to his master.
His frightened eyes were fixed on Bheema!
Krishna laughed aloud to break the silence. ‘Uluka, your mission is done.
Go back to your place immediately and tell Duryodhana that we have
perfectly understood his message. Also assure him that we are determined
to give him as good as we get, if not more!’
Uluka, visibly shaken, hastily took our leave.
‘Do you know why Duryodhana sent that jackal to us?’ Krishna asked
with a lopsided smile.
The question sounded curious. What could have been the reason other
than the threadbare ritual of psychological war on the eve of actual
violence? Krishna himself gave the reply, surprising us.
‘To hide his own fear!’
I was not sure whether Krishna really meant that or was just trying to
buck us up.

-3-
But Duryodhana too had his own share of problems. His biggest problem
was Pitamaha Bheeshma, for sure. Duryodhana was not a person to be
much impressed with Bheeshma’s idealised approach to warfare. What
Duryodhana wanted was a boorish havoc, far removed from the dignified
gallantry Bheeshma always championed. But Duryodhana did not have any
choice. Even close to a century old, the old man was still a great warrior of
infinite capability and perhaps, an even greater strategist. In terms of
charisma, stature and acceptability, he always towered over all around him.
But Duryodhana had well-founded reasons to suspect Bheeshma’s
commitment. It was no secret that Pitamaha loved us more, nor did he ever
make any attempt to hide that. Just imagine the bad luck of Duryodhana!
He, without his own mother’s blessings, had to fight the biggest battle of his
life with an ancient man at the helm of his army who favoured his enemies
more!
Duryodhana’s coterie of close friends and advisors was equally unhappy
with Pitamaha . Bheeshma had serious problems with Shakuni, Duhshasana
and Karna. He had a mixed feeling for Ashwatthama and clearly disliked
Jayadrath. Only Bhurishrava was his favourite. As our informers reported,
the anti-Bheeshma lobby was trying overtime to poison Duryodhana’s mind
against him. Shakuni apparently warned Duryodhana against giving
Bheeshma the absolute charge of the army and even suggested to create
parallel leadership reducing him to a mere titular leader. Of course all these
were going on behind his back.
But wise Bheeshma was well aware of this. He enjoyed constant support
from the other veterans— Drona and Kripa. The rift was wide and clearly
visible. The simmering tension reached a flashpoint when Bheeshma
ostensibly called Karna a ‘halfsoldier’ and foreboded his death at the hands
of Arjuna and Krishna, should Karna dare face them. Dronacharya
supported Bheeshma and he too called Karna a ‘less than a full warrior’
citing Karna’s allegedly casual approach to battle and misplaced kindness.
Humiliated, Karna refused to fight under Pitamaha ’s command.
The information pleased us all. Duryodhana would surely and sorely
miss Karna’s service.
Our informers informed us about the above facts. They were doing a
great job, continuosly keeping us posted about the mood and atmosphere in
the Kaurava camp. Krishna, Dhrishtadyumna and Satyaki had made our
intelligence unit so efficient that we were able to infiltrate spies very deep
into the enemy ranks. The lack of unity and discipline in the Kaurava side
was making the job of our spies easier. Sometimes I wondered whether
Kaurava spies too acceded to our secrets as well. Perhaps not.
The day before the battle seemed to be breezing past. Right from the
early morning we were with our army, holding emergency meetings with
army officers of various ranks and making last-ditch preparations for the
battle which was to commence from the very next day. In the meantime, we
received an interesting input from one of our spies. Duryodhana had asked
Pitamaha in how many days he could be able to destroy our entire army. ‘It
will take me one month,’ Bheeshma ostensibly said. Drona too said it
would take him one month and Kripa estimated two. Ashwatthama sounded
little too overconfident as he believed he could wipe my entire soldiery in
ten days only! And Karna—‘only five days!’
It became a talking point for us also. Was it the characteristic
braggadocio of the high-sounding sutaputra ? Finishing off seven
akshauhini soildiers in just five days? Could a man in his right senses claim
so? We knew that Karna was deliberately boastful and provocative, but
never had he appeared or sounded stupid or insane.
Krishna looked serious. So did Arjuna. Was Karna planning to unleash
some secret weapon on us? I asked Arjuna the same question Duryodhana
had put before Bheeshma. Arjuna cleared his throat and said cautiously,
‘We should not waste our time and energy on what our enemy warriors
think of their strength. Perhaps they are right in their assessments. But let
me tell you what I am capable of. With Vasudeva Krishna by my side, I can
annihilate the entire universe within a moment with the help of the great
Pashupat given away by Lord Shiva himself. But we should not use a divine
weapon of such destructive power on the Kauravas. This battle is not worth
that much. We shall fight a conventional war, and surely prevail over our
enemies.’
Everybody cheered Arjuna. His words sounded like an oracle,
descending gently from a sincere self-belief. Though I did not say anything,
I too was feeling a strange zeal within myself. The excitement of the war
was gradually becoming intoxicating. My fingers were almost dancing to
clench around my favourite lance and drive it through Kaurava soldiers
with an uncharacteristic ruthlessness.
For the first time in my life, I discovered myself waiting for a war so
eagerly that the rest of the day seemed as long as eternity.

-4-
We, with our large army, reached Kurukshetra quite early in the morning
from the west side with our faces to the east. The Kaurava army had not yet
arrived. The new sun was just some distance into the sky from the horizon,
beaming away serene rays of light. The morning looked too good to make
anybody wary of any ominous prospect. I was feeling sad that such a
beautiful day was soon going to be completely marred by a senseless
holocaust throwing party to the vultures sailing up in the sky.
Suddenly I noticed a thin, continuous black line along the horizon. It had
not been there only a little earlier. The line was not static but moving. It was
slowly broadening into a black strip or band. I now heard a faint noise,
somewhat similar to the roar of a tumultuous sea, coming from a great
distance. The black strip had already become broad enough and the noise
much louder. Now we understood what it was. It was the enormous,
roaring, clamouring Kaurava army marching towards us with the rhythm of
drumbeats. The closer they came, the louder the hubbub became. Soon, the
din became deafening. I could now vaguely see the people standing upfront,
despite the dust. Then with an ear-splitting command and the final beat of
kettle-drums, the army came to a halt.
When the mist caused by the dust faded away a bit, I could first
recognise Pitamaha Bheeshma and Acharya Drona, standing in the front of
the army on the other side of the ground. Their expressions were complex.
Then I saw a visibly sad Uncle Shalya who ended up being on the wrong
side. Usually amiable Kripa and Bahlika wore grim, anxious looks.
Bhurishrava lowered his head to avoid eye-contact. Ashwatthama smiled
faintly. Jayadrath twisted his face in contempt. That scoundrel must be
remembering the ordeal he had had to endure at our hands. Duryodhana and
Shakuni both looked unusually serious and sombre, the former without his
notorious overbearance and the latter his wry, sinister humour. Duhshasana
was with his usual poker face, though. He was too dumb to put up any other
expression. Karna was not there. I saw the bright-looking Vikarna. I saw all
other brothers of Duryodhana. I saw Yuyutsu, the sensible stepbrother of
Duryodhana. Almost everybody present in the front rank was known to me.
Some of them were venerable preceptors, some my very own kinsmen and
some former friends. Those differently aged men were central to my
childhood memories. The last time I had seen all of them together was
perhaps at the rice ceremony of Duryodhana’s son Laxman in Hastinapura.
How joyfully we had celebrated that day together and all those warriors
glowering at us now with murder in their minds had looked so different that
day!
 Exactly what had changed between us since then? Wherefrom had this
terrible malice come into being?
I felt I was seeing countless images of my own face in the Kaurava line-
up, as if I was standing in front of thousands of mirrors. I momentarily felt a
debilitating numbness in my limbs. I started to realise what this war was
actually going to mean! I would be required to defeat none but myself in
this war and should I win, my own history would be desecrated. This war,
most certainly, would be survived by only some losers.
I felt a little ashamed for getting sloshy at the time of action. I quickly
tried to see Krishna. Arjuna and Krishna were positioned far away from me.
I saw them moving towards the Kauravas slowly. What were they up to?
Their chariot stopped in between the two armies. Arjuna stood up. Now I
understood he wanted to have a closer look at our enemies.
But what happened to Arjuna? Why did he drop his Gandiva? Why did
he sit down in the chariot burying his face in two palms? Was he feeling
unwell?
Krishna had stood up meanwhile. I saw him put his hand on Arjuna’s
shoulder and say something to him. Arjuna was shaking his head violently,
evidently revealing his deep reluctance for something. Krishna seemed to
be trying to console him. Then Krishna took his hand off Arjuna’s shoulder
and sat on the driver’s seat facing Arjuna. Arjuna was looking at him.
Krishna was probably saying something to him. I could not hear them
because of the noise all around. From a distance, I could understand that
Krishna was delivering a lecture and Arjuna listening to him with all his
attention. But was it the right place for a discourse? The two armies were
getting restless.
‘What the hell are they doing, brother? I am dying to start thrashing the
Kauravas and here these two have started a private conference!’—an
extremely annoyed Bheema asked impatiently. Even Dhrishtadyumna and
Drupada were getting impatient. The restlessness was precipitating into the
Kaurava side as well. I noticed Duryodhana rush his chariot towards
Bheeshma’s and indignantly discuss something with him pointing at Arjuna
and Krishna. The soldiers of both the armies started fidgeting and
flustering.
But the restive multitude surprisingly calmed down quickly, on its own.
All eighteen akshauhini (eleven of Duryohana and seven of us) men stood
breathlessly staring at the duo with rapt attention. Perhaps everybody was
identifying his own internal struggle with Arjuna’s. Perhaps everybody
wanted Arjuna’s weakness to prevail over meaningless bravery and wanted
to go back home all smiles with a nice story to tell his beloved. Arjuna’s
sudden mawkishness and his momentary abhorrence for fighting seemed to
represent, for once, the very conscience of the monstrous assemblage at
Kurukshetra. Arjuna personified the last bastion of human dilemma before
succumbing to a dreadful craziness.
But Krishna was in complete control of the situation, as usual. From a
distance, I wanted to read their body languages. Krishna was apparently
preaching something to Arjuna with animated gestures. Arjuna stared
unblinkingly at him, evidently spellbound. I could not hear them, but it
became clear that Krishna’s rhetorics were taking effect on Arjuna. He was
evidently getting back his poise and his confusion was fast receding.
Krishna must have been telling Arjuna why he should fight his enemies,
even if they were his bloodrelatives. This particular war was not in conflict
with dharma ; rather it would help enforce dharma . This great
Armageddon happened to be the much awaited dharmayuddha the world
was in dire need for. But how did Krishna drive home his point when
Arjuna, his disciple, was so down?
Krishna’s preaching seemed to have been over. There was a distinct
change in Arjuna’s posture. He looked menacing now, and started stringing
the enormous Gandiva. Krishna was spectacularly successful in changing
not only Arjuna’s mood, but also the general disposition of numberless
soldiers arrayed across the ground in peculiar formations. They did not
know what went on between Arjuna and Krishna, nor did they need to.
They only witnessed that Arjuna had been apparently convinced. That was
enough for those common, simple men to shed their own weaknesses.
Krishna not only removed the confusion of a certain man, but actually did
away with the general scepticism regarding the legitimacy of this particular
war in a most evocative manner.

-5-
But exactly what did Krishna say to Arjuna? I wanted to know. I did not
need it, for I had managed to overcome my own weakness all by myself.
But still, I wanted to hear Krishna’s gospel just to be enticed by the sheer
magic of his words. I always treasured his sermons. I would cajole out of
Arjuna much later what happened between them that day.
Arjuna: ‘See Krishna see. All my relatives, friends and elders have
assembled here to fight for or against us. Our very own battle will cause
their deaths. With whom shall I share my happiness if all my near and dear
ones are dead, for my cause at that? It is far better for me to get killed by
Dhritarashtra’s sons, instead of slaughtering my own people to win back a
kingdom! Oh, what a great sin we were about to commit! My limbs are
trembling, I am feeling a terrible fatigue; I am even unable to hold on to my
Gandiva. O Madhusudan, please tell me what to do?’
Krishna: ‘Your lamentation is utterly uncalled for. No wise man ever
grieves for anybody living or dead. The atma is indestructible. It is never
created, nor does it wither with time. It is eternal and remains stashed into
various mortal frames. It is the mortal frame that perishes. The atma gets
itself a new body leaving the old one like we drape ourselves with new
garments, shedding old, worn-out clothes. Remember, the living has to die
some day and the dead will surely be reborn some day—this is the most
inexorable truth and you must not lament over it. A dharmayuddha is the
greatest opportunity a Kshatriya can have in a lifetime. This war happens to
be the gate of the paradise wide open for you all. If you don’t fight, you will
incur greatest of sins and will lose all your glory and fame. If you win, you
have the entire world at your feet; should you lose, you attain heaven. So,
get up and fight. Be indifferent to joy and sorrow or victory and defeat; only
give your best to this war. Eschew desire, be under the spell of Yoga and
develop that inherent neutrality that can accept success and failure alike.
Mind you, O son of Kunti, your karma is your only privilege, its
outcome being well beyond your purview! Don’t expect anything, just do
your duty. Just look at me. Nobody has burdened me with any
responsibility, nor do I expect to gain anything from any of the three
worlds. But still, I am pursuing my karma steadfastly.
O Arjuna, whenever dharma gets violated and the evil rears its ugly
head, I manifest myself. To protect the righteous, to destroy the wicked and
to restore rectitude and truthfulness, I have descended on earth in different
ages.’
Then Krishna ostensibly exhibited his breathtaking cosmic form. Arjuna
tried to describe that inscrutable experience in his life,
‘It was…it was completely impossible to put into words. I saw a
prodigious figure of infinite stature. It had myriad arms, bellies, heads and
eyes. The entire universe was represented in his body. His innumerable
faces were wide mouthed, baring ferocious fangs. The sight was so
frightening! I saw all Kaurava warriors and also many from our side enter
into those open mouths and disappear. I saw some of them being crushed in
between his jagged teeth. As insects rush into fire to get ruined, all living
entities were flowing towards him and being devoured. He was a distinct
manifestation of Lord Vishnu, yet so different, so scintillating! I asked him
aloud, “Who are you, O the terrible?” The reply came down from the sky
like a thunder, “I am Time—the ultimate terminator! All your enemies are
fated to die—even if you don’t kill them, they shall die! I have already
taken away their lives. O the ambidexter, you are but an instrument of
destiny. So get up now, defeat your enemy and earn eternal glory.” Then
Krishna, returning to his usual form, said more familiarly, “Arjuna, give
yourself to me. Worship me. Be my truest disciple. You will have me. Don’t
get confused by nuances of dharma , you just follow me with all your heart.
I will free you from all sins, don’t worry.”’
Arjuna finished his account with tears in his eyes. ‘Brother Yudhisthira,
what more can an ordinary mortal like me get from this life?’ He asked in a
choked voice. I did not bother to reply as the answer was too obvious.

-6-
The war was about to commence in a few moments. I, alone and unarmed,
walked towards the restless Kaurava army to pay last obeisance to the
venerable personalities fighting on the Kaurava side. I heard taunts from
Duryodhana and his brothers while I walked barefoot into his army. ‘Oh
look at that leader of vagabonds! He is too scared to start the battle without
our commander’s blessings!’ One of them said. ‘Was he really born into a
Kshatriya family?’ Another asked aloud, triggering off a cacophonous mix
of guffaws and cackles. I did not mind.
I reached Pitamaha first.
‘It is so nice of you to have come to me, Yudhisthira. What could be
more tragic than the fact that we are enemies today! Believe me; I have
been hopelessly bound by my vow, duty and my idea of righteousness
which confuses me nowadays! The Kauravas have won over your wretched
Pitamaha by sanctioning him food, shelter and comfort! May you get
everything you wish. I bless you wholeheartedly, my dear,’ the troubled old
man told me with eyes filled with a complicated sadness.
‘Pitamaha , you are invincible. Even Parashu Rama the great could not
overpower you. How can we defeat you?’ I felt a little ashamed asking this.
‘My time is not yet done, dear. You come to me later again.’ His voice
trailed away.
I looked at the face of Bheeshma. He was looking upwards at the sky. He
held back two drops of tears from rolling down his wrinkled cheeks,
applying enormous self-restraint. I pitied the poor old man. I knew for sure
that regardless of the outcome of the war, Pitamaha would most certainly
end up a loser.
Acharya Drona, too, behaved almost similarly. However, he readily
revealed the secret to fell him, ‘I renounce weapon if I get an extremely
unpleasant news from a trusted person while fighting. That could be your
best chance to get rid of me!’ Acharya Kripa was also very generous, giving
away sincere blessings to us. Uncle Shalya, the uncomplicated man that he
was, started sobbing on seeing me. He was still repentant for not being able
to fight for us and badly wanted to compensate for that.
I had a strange proposal for Shalya. ‘Uncle, as I too have some rights on
you, I want a favour from you. I am too wary of sutaputra Karna’s ability
and vengefulness. You have to constantly demoralise him, taking away the
sheen off his natural valour.’ I did not care if that was unfair. I was already
past the phase of my life when I had afforded to consider such fancy
moralities! I did not know whether Shalya was surprised; but he agreed
with considerable interest. Perhaps, to some extent, it helped lessen his guilt
feeling.
The genteel time was over. I had one more thing in my mind before
letting the bloodbath begin. It always troubled me that common soldiers, or
even less influential warriors never got the opportunity to exercise own
discretions to identify dharma or adharma and choose sides accordingly.
They must be given a chance to choose sides. I would give them a chance.
Standing between the two armies, I addressed both sides at the top of my
voice:
‘O the brave soldiers! In a few moments, the dharmayuddha is going to
be unleashed. It is your last opportunity to decide where dharma lies and
switch allegiance if you feel like. If anybody from my army wants to join
them, he is free to leave us. And if anybody from their side is interested to
fight for me, he is most welcome.’
My announcement brought about a pin-drop silence in Kurukshetra.
Even the animals stood motionless for a while, as if my kind offer was
running through their minds too.
Nobody left my army. I noticed one unassuming chariot coming out of
the Kaurava army. It was Yuyutsu—the illegitimate son of Dhritarashtra and
a slave woman. We had always known him to be a good man. ‘Will you
accept me, brother Yudhisthira?’ Yuyutsu shouted.
‘It will be an honour for us to have you, brother Yuyutsu! Come come.
We shall fight your stepbrothers together! I am sure Dhritarashtra’s line will
be saved only by you!’ I embraced him and after a quick consultation with
Dhrishtadyumna, appointed him as an honorary commander of one
important division of my army.
The sun had already become sweltering. The soldiers had already waited
long enough. It was time!
Many hundreds kettle-drums were beaten. A spine-chilling yet melodious
sound was heard absorbing all other noise. That was the sound of the
Panchajanya, Krishna’s conch. I immediately blew my Anantavijaya. Soon
other conchs and trumpets joined the ensemble, together giving out a
terrible noise that seemed to have shaken the earth to its core. It was our
formal declaration of the start of the war.
Now Bheeshma and other Kaurava warriors blew their respective
trumpets, in a befitting response. Another frightful din arose from the other
side of the ground.
‘Soldiers, attaaaaaack!’ Pitamaha Bheeshma let out a dreadful command.
The Kaurava army started dashing towards us, fast and furious.
 Dhrishtadyumna, our commander-in-chief, cried out his orders, ‘Push
forward, men!’
Our army, too, started marching forward menacingly.
With absolutely nothing standing in between them any more, the two
estranged branches of the Kuru dynasty finally started rushing towards each
other to find the final solution—unfortunately not by embracing, but by
killing each other!
 14
The Vain Patriarch

-1-
‘

D
on’t be so upset, Yudhisthira my son. I am used to it!’
Pitamaha Bheeshma muttered the above words with great
difficulty, trying hard to overcome the excruciating physical pain.
The harrowing twilight not only marked the end of the tenth day
of the Kurukshetra war, but also the end of an era. The sun too seemed to be
in a hurry to set, seemingly unable to tolerate the morbid gloom any further.
Pitamaha Bheeshma, the greatest of the Kauravas, was lying on a bed of
arrows!
Blood was oozing from hundreds of wounds all over his body. Numerous
arrows were stuck to his ancient body giving him the look of a porcupine.
Most of those shafts were Arjuna’s. He had rained torrents of arrows on
Pitamaha from behind Shikhandi, whose indefinite gender gave him (or
her) immunity against Bheeshma, for the chivalrous old man found it
beneath his dignity to fight a transgender! Our Pitamaha had received
blows after blows making absolutely no efforts to retreat. He did not
counter-attack, as any such attempt could have injured Shikhandi, who had
apparently been a woman in his (or her?) previous birth. Arjuna, safely
screened by Shikhandi, showed the retired old man no mercy. I still cannot
think of any human being capable of withstanding Arjuna’s strikes for so
long remaining so calm.
But I could not understand what Bheeshma tried to mean by saying that
he was ‘used to it’. How could a person be used to lying on arrowheads?
Was it a delirium of a moribund old man contorting from unbearable pain
and agony? But I was too overwhelmed with grief and a sense of guilt to
delve deep into his words and examine if there was any subtle inner
meaning!
The Armageddon had begun ten days back on a pleasant day in the
month of Agrahayan . Bheeshma was appointed by Duryodhana as the
commander-in-chief of the Kaurava army and Dhrishtadyumna ours.
Bheeshma fought for ten days that were, blissfully, the most sedate part
of the war. He deliberately kept the war balanced in almost a situation of
stalemate with no armies conceding any serious casualty. It was more of a
sparring between the two sides than a desperate lunge at each other’s throat.
Bheeshma tried to ensure that no one should lose the battle and compelled
the two sides to fight with an ethically permissible aggression. His
undisputed, chivalrous leadership was respected by both the sides alike.
Though he led our enemy’s army, somehow he led ours as well. Such was
his stature.
I believe he sadly clung to a false, last hope that a prolonged stalemate
would dilute the blazing animosity between the two sides. Even during the
war, he made desperate attempts to give peace a last, final chance—not by
preaching this time, but by brilliantly conducting a fake war.
I would understand his clever moves much later. First, he deliberately
kept Karna out of the war by humiliating him. He even went to the extent of
publicly calling Karna ‘ardharath ’ (‘half chariot-warrior’). Severely
offended, Karna refused to fight under Bheeshma’s command and was out
of action for the first ten days dealing a serious blow to the prospects of the
Kaurava side.
Then, Bheeshma made it clear to Duryodhana that although he would
definitely try to destroy our army, he would never kill me or any of my
brothers. Buring the battle, he always kept Arjuna occupied. Their duels
used to be evenly matched and seemingly never-ending. That way
Pitamaha was quite successful to prevent Arjuna from causing any serious
damage to the Kaurava side.
As the war progressed, Duryodhana started to realise that the war was not
heading anywhere. He regularly shouted at Pitamaha accusing him of
under-performance. But Duryodhana was too blunt to understand the grand
old man’s actual game.
 But Bheeshma’s efforts were not helping us, either. We needed to win, by
hook or crook. A stalemate was hardly sufficient to help us regain our
kingdom. We too, much like Duryodhana, could not really understand at
that time that it was Bheeshma’s conscious ploy to tire out both the armies.
But Krishna understood it immediately. The farcical contest irritated him
so much that it led to his strange, uncharacteristic outburst on the third day
of the battle. Bheeshma and Arjuna were engaged as usual in an engrossing
face-off. Arjuna was completely oblivious of his mission and seemed to be
more interested to impress Pitamaha Bheeshma with his amazing skills
than tearing into the enemy army with a killer instinct.
Suddenly, Krishna lost his patience. He stood up on the chariot and
addressed Satyaki aloud, ‘Satyaki, send all our soldiers home! I alone will
win this war for Yudhishtira and give him back his kingdom!’
Krishna’s voice brought the battle to a halt. Everybody stood motionless
on the battlefield and stared fixedly at him. Even the horses and elephants
stopped moving. It seemed that a strange impairment had crippled all living
objects around following a harrowing oracle.
Krishna, breaking his promise of not taking active part in the war, rushed
towards Bheeshma. The dusky god, clad in yellow silk, looked so dazzling
that his furious charge resembled a thunderbolt ripping through blue-black
mist of cloud. What a sight that was—breathtakingly fascinating, yet
frightening at the same time!
The dreaded Sudarshan chakra (discus) appeared on Krishna’s erected
index finger. Bheeshma, showing amazing composure and calmness, got
down from his chariot and stood in front of Krishna with folded hands,
inviting Krishna to kill him.
‘Come my lord and salvage me from the bounds of this life that has
fatigued and bruised me so much! I feel honoured that you yourself are
coming to rescue me.’
Krishna’s pace slowed down for Pitamaha’ s humility had taken the sting
out of Krishna’s anger. Meanwhile, Arjuna caught up with him and fell to
Krishna’s feet. Arjuna calmed Krishna down and promised that he would
fight exactly the way Krishna and we expected him to. Krishna, probably a
little ashamed of himself, wiped beads of sweats from his forehead and
walked back to Arjuna’s chariot to take up the reins of the horses once
again. The god, who had become human for a rare moment, quickly found
his usual self back. That was a clear testimony of Pitamaha Bheeshma’s
substance that made even Krishna behave ungodlike in a sudden rush of
blood, albeit momentarily.
After Bheeshma’s fall, the so called dharmayuddha suddenly got
transformed into an ugly, anarchic, insane festival of killing. Only then I
realised what Bheeshma had intended and managed to do. Acharya Drona,
who succeeded Bheeshma as the commander, clearly lacked Bheeshma’s
stature. In spite of being a great warrior, Drona failed to control the fight the
way Bheeshma had been able to. Worse, he himself deviated from the war
protocol a number of times. How should we forget that this venerable
Acharya of ours led a qualmless pack of warriors to gift our Abhimanyu a
gruesome death? Had Bheeshma been in command that day, he would never
have let it happen, I can swear.
After Abhimanyu’s death, the battle would last for only five more days.
But these five days would be remembered in history as an uninhibited
demonstration of depraved belligerence. We, some accursed souls, survived
it only to live a life burdened with painful memories. Our Pitamaha would
then be resting his battle-scarred body on countless numbers of arrows,
resigned and retired from his worldly duties and waiting for the appropriate
time to leave this world. Bheeshma’s fallen body never touched the ground,
thanks to the arrows of Arjuna and Shikhandi. I liked it. At his last hour, our
dying Pitamaha did not have to touch the earth wet with the blood of the
Kaurava house—the institution he had sold out his entire life for!
What Bheeshma actually wanted and tried during his commandership
was, in spirit, the very same thing he had tried all along—to restore peace
and dharma to the accursed house of Kuru— and failed. Yes, Pitamaha
Bheeshma ultimately failed in his last mission too but no one else other than
this phenomenal man could have put up such a noble fight against a
pervading decadence all over which was the signature of the looming Kali
yuga .

-2-
After spending nine frustrating days at Kurukshetra, we became sure that
this old man would not let us win. Duryodhana, too sensed that the towering
veteran was the biggest stumbling block to reach any conclusion. In fact,
Duryodhana even asked Pitamaha to step down and give Karna a chance to
thrive all-out for a win. I heard later that this had left Bheeshma fuming,
quite understandably.
But we were far more shameless than Duryodhana!
‘Pitamaha is unconquerable. That old man has to be got rid of, or else
prepare for a devastating defeat,’ said Krishna with a very deep frown on
his forehead.
‘But how can he be got rid of?’ My indecorous question revealed my
total lack of concern for Pitamaha ’s well-being at that moment and a
barefaced desperation for victory by whatever means!
‘But what do you mean by getting rid of Pitamaha ?’ Arjuna’s voice
seemed to have trembled a bit. Though his question sounded pretentiously
naïve, actually it was not. Arjuna was still so much in love with Pitamaha
that he could not digest the idea of ‘getting rid of’ him. Arjuna’s reaction
contrasted mine so starkly that my head hung down in shame. I felt
exposed.
But Krishna ticked off Arjuna. ‘Don’t ask questions that even children
would never ask, Arjuna. But don’t worry. Your Pitamaha will himself tell
you how to see him off.’
We visited the Kaurava camp in the wee hours, stealthily met Pitamaha
in his tent and unabashedly asked him to part with the secret of his death!
A queer smirk appeared on Pitamaha’ s face. He understood that now his
death had become much dearer to his beloved grandchildren than his life!
May be he thought that Duryodhana was more graceful than us.
Duryodhana had demanded from him a mere resignation only while we,
unable to defeat the century-old man fair and square, simply demanded his
death.
‘If Shikhandi crosses my way tomorrow, I will cease fighting. I do not
deign to fight anybody who lacks a definite sex—that’s beneath my dignity,
you know! From behind Shikhandi, Arjuna can easily strike me down.’
Our Pitamaha magnanimously revealed to us the secret to defeat him.
Before leaving his tent, I turned back once. I found our Pitamaha staring at
us blankly.
I felt so belittled. Perhaps he expected that we would not really resort to
such tactic. But by then, our desperation to win the war had far outweighed
any romantic conviction to war codes.
Bheeshma’s suggestions reminded me of the curious case of Shikhandi,
the elder brother of Draupadi and Dhrishtadyumna. Shikhandi was a
handsome, powerful, intelligent youth with reasonable expertise in the art
of warfare. There was an evident effeminacy in his personality and
demeanour. It was generally believed that Shikhandi was actually born as a
female and underwent sex transformation to become a man. In spite of
becoming a complete male, Shikhandi retained some typical girlish traits. I
observed that both Draupadi and Dhrishtadyumna were extremely
protective about Shikhandi and never entertained our inquisitiveness about
their sister-turned-brother keeping it like a carefully guarded family secret.
But in spite of their best efforts, they could not do anything about the
scintillating myth that apparently explained Shikhandi’s effiminacy. Our
Pitamaha was the protagonist of that legend that still causes me goose-
bumps.
Shikhandi was ostensibly Amba-reborn, who had been a princess of
Kashi abducted by Bheeshma. Bheeshma had forcibly taken her away for
marriage with King Vichitraveerya. Amba opposed the marriage as she was
betrothed to the king of Shalwa. Bheeshma sent her back to Shalwa but he
refused her for fear of Bheeshma. Amba, then asked Bheeshma to marry
her. Bheeshma, bound by his oath of celibacy, turned down the proposal.
The poor woman, refused for a second time, self-immolated with a grim
pledge to ruin Bheeshma in her next life. Our Shikhandi, according to a
widely believed theory, happened to be her re-incarnation.
Bheeshma was aware of Amba’s murderous pursuit and gracefully
remained indifferent to it. But I was curious to know how he actually felt of
Amba.
I have an impression that his apparent despise for Shikhandi might have
been a conscious effort to obscure his immense admiration for Amba and
her deadly mission. His refusal to fight Shikhandi was not due to a reason
as commonplace as his contempt for fighting a transgender. Bheeshma
perhaps wanted the late woman to succeed in her mission at his own
expense.
Bheeshma could not give affection to Amba when she was alive.
Belatedly, he made amends by gifting Shikhandi, Amba’s post-death
manifestation, his doom.
 Had any man ever done anything nobler to whisper his last tribute to a
woman who wanted him, or else his ruin, so badly?
And, had any woman ever hated a man so onerously unless she loved
him even for a split moment?

-3-
During our adolescence, Bheeshma was a curiosity to me. His stature
appeared even above King Dhritarashtra. I used to think why Bheeshma
himself was not the king.
Bheeshma had given up his rights to the throne of Hastinapura and
pledged life-long celibacy to get his father Shantanu, who had a habit of
falling in love, a second wife! I was aware of our ancestor Puru who had
exchanged his youth with his father Yayati’s decrepitude though that was a
reversible transaction. Bheeshma’s great sacrifice for such a petty cause was
certainly the greatest tragedy of the Kuru house. As a matter of fact, I still
cannot digest the fact that such a towering personality ended up being so
utterly futile! He gave himself a life which was no better than an
excruciating sentence and more importantly, created a colossal mess that
our entire clan could never get over from.
Bheeshma—already a matchless warrior in his own right, a great scholar
and a great mind—had been a famous youth at that time and certainly the
most eligible and sought-after bachelor in the Aryavarta. During a hunting
expedition, Shantanu stumbled upon Satyavati, the beautiful daughter of a
fisherman. Though she was about his son’s age, Shantanu immediately fell
in love with her, exactly the same way he had been enamoured by
Bheeshma’s mother Ganga some twenty years back. Shantanu, a liberal
monarch, had no inhibition with Satyavati’s humble origin but had serious
problem with the condition that her father would put forward. Her father
was not content only with his daughter becoming the queen, but also
wanted to ensure the throne to her children.
Shantanu went into a depression realising the absurdity of the
fisherman’s demand. Bheeshma, coming to know of his father’s crisis, met
the fisherman and gave up his rights as the heir to the throne. But it was not
enough for the over-ambitious fisherman who wanted to keep the throne
secured from Bheeshma’s descendants too. Just imagine the temerity of that
petty fisherman!
Then came that scintillating declaration from Bheeshma that he would
observe celibacy throughout his life completely abstaining from sexual
activities so that he could leave no descendants to stake claim over the
throne of Hastinapura.
Vidura narrated the incident to me umpteen times. Though it had
happened much before his birth, Vidura used to tell this part of the story
with great emotion. He used to halt, clear his throat, wipe his moist eyes,
take a good swig of water and try to restore the clarity of his voice that
would invariably change while he reached this point of the story. Vidura
had always been a staunch Bheeshma-loyalist—not a blind one though.
The incident was so singular in nature that I could not help pondering
over it time and again. It still intrigues me why Bheeshma had to give up
his everything. Was it only an insanely exaggerated interpretation of filial
duty? Bheeshma apparently did not consult his father before taking the vow,
giving Shantanu absolutely no chance to interfere and refrain his son from
going to such an extreme. No good father could be happy with his own
happiness secured at the cost of his son’s. Shantanu got his woman all right,
but how did he feel to unite with her over the rubbles of his son’s hopes,
dreams and happiness? Was Bheeshma aware that he had inflicted an
unbearable stigma on his father’s reputation by making him look like a
lustful monarch finding his own pleasure at the expense of his son’s? Why
did not an obedient son like Bheeshma find it necessary to even inform his
father about his decision that was tantamount to self-castration? Why was
Bheeshma in such dire haste to shut himself out of one most important
aspect of human life so that he could not even buy some time from
Satyavati’s father to discuss the matter with Shantanu?
Did Bheeshma actually take a revenge on Shantanu for deviating from
his mother’s memory, although Shantanu and Ganga had parted ways long
before? Was the actual truth little different?
Or, did Bheeshma actually lack virility? Was that painful fact handed
over to following generations in the form of a colourful anecdote? Did
Bheeshma consciously fake magnanimity to hide his own impotence?
But that is a mere suspicion. Even if that be assumed true, it was still
amazing that Bheeshma spontaneously renounced all his claims to the royal
throne of Hastinapura. There was absolutely no further need to add to it any
story (if it really was) like the one of his oath of celibacy to make the
sacrifice appear even more impressive.
Imagine! A youthful prince, brimming with promises, ideas and desire,
suddenly gave away all his rights to inherit the throne just because his
father fell for a woman half his age!
The sacrifice was incredible no doubt, but was it really commendable?
Vidura was so shaken by this strange incident of Bheeshma’s life and he
was in such awe with Pitamaha that he could only see a superhuman
magnanimity in it. But I begged to disagree—though never expressed it to
anyone—as I looked at it with a much clearer, pragmatic sight. What I
found in it was a pathetic irresponsibility arising out of an almost insane
self-obsession that successfully created a lasting illusion of selflessness.
Don’t I sound too cruel in judging Pitamaha ? I know why. His misplaced
generosity was almost analogous to my overdone show of ‘truthfulness’
that troubled my kinsfolk more often than not. I could never pardon myself
for that. I failed to forgive Pitamaha in much the same way.

-4-
Bheeshma was never the kind of a person given to imposing himself on the
actual king and running a parallel government. He had always rendered due
importance to his kings—Vichitraveerya, Pandu and Dhritarashtra.
Vichitraveerya, my grandfather, was interested in anything but statecraft
and could well have been left with no kingdom to rule had there been no
Bheeshma! In spite of Bheeshma’s amazing humility and desperate efforts
to keep his own profile lower than the reigning King Vichitraveerya’s,
everybody knew who the actual ruler was. It would not be much off the
mark to say that the process of establishing an ideal dharmarajya was
actually initiated by Bheeshma—the shadow ruler, though the effort
completely lost its way with the emergence of some villainous elements
who, unfortunately, got armed with a destructive authority that Bheeshma’s
‘magnanimous’ sacrifice made available to them.
Pandu was intelligent, capable and at the same time, humble. Bheeshma,
I can imagine, must have been very relaxed in Pandu’s time. Pandu did not
leave much for him to do, and followed his advices and suggestions with
proper respect. Bheeshma felt like a retired and content patriarch. But I
suspect, he started to become more like an object of archival interest
towards the end of Pandu’s regime.
Dhritarashtra’s ascension to the throne was fortuitous. As he was born
blind, Pandu was made the king in spite of being his junior. Dhritarashtra
slumped into a bitter depression. Pandu’s death came as a fulfilment to
Dhritarashtra’s long cherished dream and served as a prelude to the darkest
chapter in the history of Bharatavarsha.
Undoubtedly, Dhritarashtra loved Pitamaha very much. Pitamaha , too,
always had a special concern for him, considering poor Dhritarashtra’s lack
of vision—both literally as well as figuratively. In the initial years of his
regime, Bheeshma and Vidura had to become hyperactive once again
because Dhritarashtra was a very confused ruler. He wanted to be just with
his subjects though could not always understand where justice lay. Their
relationship soon took a turn for the worse; thanks to the shenanigans of a
certain Shakuni.
Vidura always suspected that Shakuni stepped into Hastinapura on a
specific mission. Probably Shakuni had not taken the marriage between his
sister Gandhari and a visually impaired Dhritarashtra with much kindness.
Political hegemony of Hastinapura over a much weaker Gandhara, which
sometimes bordered on bullying, might have been another reason of his
venomous spite. Shakuni knew that he had to drive a wedge between
Bheeshma and Dhritarashtra first, then wash Dhritarashtra’s undulating
mind clean of all good senses; and lastly, fill his soul with a devilish ill-will.
All these came as easy to him as emptying a bottle of milk first, then
washing it well to remove sediments of the milk and finally, refilling the
bottle upto brim with poison. Meanwhile, Duryodhana too was showing
unmistakable promises of becoming the ideal piece to fit perfectly into
Shakuni’s nefarious designs. Shakuni immediately found his protégé in
Duryodhana and got along well with his nephew just like a house on fire.
Bheeshma had his job cut out, when a vicious Shakuni started making
Dhritarashtra dance to his tunes and moulding Duryodhana his way, to
Pitamaha’ s hopeless chagrin. The situation became like a shadow contest
between Shakuni and Pitamaha which Bheeshma was clearly losing—not
because he was any less clever than Shakuni, but due to his initial inability
to recognise the gravity of the threat Shakuni could be able to pose.
Bheeshma undermined Shakuni’s capability by trivialising him as an
irritating rodent trying to eat into Dhritarashtra’s innocence. But Shakuni
deserved more respect as an opponent. Vidura, rather, was more accurate in
understanding Shakuni. Sadly, Bheeshma was like a conceited lion
disinterested to stoop low to deal with a creeping serpent and ended up
getting a fatal sting on his toe.
But Bheeshma’s worst moments were still to come. Humiliations,
initially subtle and mild, started becoming more excruciating and blatant as
Duryodhana grew into a reckless, impertinent youth with a sickeningly
scant understanding of dharma .
It still makes my blood boil that Duryodhana even made our Pitamaha
feel obliged for the food he ate, unabashedly reminding him that it was
financed from the exchequer owned by Duryodhana and his father! I realise
now that every bitter morsel Bheeshma took in reminded him of the fact
that he was but a slave.
While Bheeshma was writhing in pain lying on the bed of arrows he said
he was ‘used to it’ in an attempt to console us! That peculiar comment of
Pitamaha still throbs in mind though it does not sound as mystic as it did
when I heard it.
Because I know now that Pitamaha ’s entire life itself had been like a bed
of arrows. Some iron shafts pricking into his flesh could not give him any
greater pain than what he had already suffered before.
Pitamaha Bheeshma gave himself a life this forlorn!

-5-
Even after his fall, Bheeshma continued to serve his dear Hastinapura.
Sounds unbelievable, doesn’t it? Lying on viciously sharp arrowheads in the
middle of Kurukshetra for close to two months till his demise, a moribund
Bheeshma enlightened me with his brilliant scholarship charting out my
future course of thought and actions. Not only consolation, I received a
wide repertoire of knowledge on subjects including philosophy, society,
administration, rituals, morality and of course, righteousness.
 Though his interpretation of dharma was orthodox, an element of
progressiveness was integral to Bheeshma’s ideology which strangely, if not
paradoxically, cohabited with his orthodoxy. Pitamaha believed in equal
social rights for men and women. Bheeshma never treated people of lower
castes with disrespect. Bheeshma’s philosophy was special, due to presence
of the conspicuous liberalism which was quite ahead of his time. However,
his liberal views failed to add practicability to his concept of dharma which
made Krishna’s emergence so necessary. What I feel now is that Pitamaha
’s approach to dharma was the precursor to Krishna’s. Bheeshma and
Krishna could have made the ideal combination to lay foundations for the
dharmarajya . But unfortunately, their times were different, albeit
objectives almost similar.
I asked him whether dharma is one and unique.
‘Dharma is unique, though its confirmation can be sought through the
Vedas, first-hand experiences and conducts. Don’t try to understand dharma
through argument or debate; it has to be resolved within one’s own qualms.
The classical dharma has four tenets—non-violence, truth, charity and a
mind cleansed of anger. I suggest you to celebrate this dharma throughout
your life.’
Bheeshma lived fifty-eight days since the conclusion of the war. This
consultation remained treasured up in my mind forever with undiminished
relevance. Even today, whenever faced with any ideological confusion, I
just shut my eyes and try to remember the last words of that stalwart who
straddled over a series of generations like a gigantic institution.
Like Vidura, Pitamaha Bheeshma too kept himself alive through me—in
a less literal sense though.
 15
The Warrior Brahmin

-1-

O
ur innocence happened to be the first casualty during the process of
our growing up. It seems almost incredible to me today that once
upon a time we used to play games with Dhritarashtra’s sons! Time
changed and we would one day find ourselves standing in front of
Duryodhana and his brothers, who had meanwhile become hated
‘Kauravas’ to us, with all the bitterness in the world on a battlefield far
larger than our childhood playground—and no more to win a ball game, but
an epic war!
We were in our late teens then. We five brothers, Duryodhana and some
of his brothers were playing with a beeta (a wooden spheroid—a popular
playing object in our time). During the play, Durmarshan— one brother of
Duryodhana—shot it so wide that it strayed out of the ground and fell into a
deep well.
We were clueless how to pick it up from the well. The well was dried up,
but very deep. Though the ball was visible from above, there was no way
for us to reach it.
We started looking around for someone who could help us. We noticed a
thin line of smoke spiralling upwards from behind a bush and found an
unassuming looking Brahmin priest performing some rituals behind it. He
was a middle-aged, thin man and wore clothes that had evidently seen better
days. Still, the man did not appear commonplace to me because of two
things. First, an enormous bow was kept beside him. The other thing was
obviously his eyes. His eyes were piercing.
 ‘Shame on all of you, O princes! Born into such an illustrious house, yet
unable to pick up a ball from a pit little too deep!’ The husky, authoritative
voice of the man confirmed my impression.
‘Who are you, Brahmin?’ The coarse, arrogant question was
Duryodhana’s. Politeness was never his greatest virtue most obviously.
The stranger looked at Duryodhana from the corner of his eyes for a
fleeting moment and completely ignored him. Instead, he looked at me,
probably guessing my seniority among the boys.
‘Can you please help us recover the ball?’ I asked softly.
‘That is easier done than said—at least for me ! But what will I get in
return?’
‘Anything you want, Brahmin, but be quick! Can’t you see the sun
getting overhead?’ Duryodhana shouted impatiently.
The man stared at him for a little longer this time, with a caustic smirk on
his beard-covered face.
‘Don’t forget what you have just said, Prince. Now see what I do.’
He took off a ring from his middle finger, tossed it into the well and said,
‘Watch me lift both.’ The stranger did an amazing thing then. He first
picked up a fistful of reeds from the ground and sharpened one end of each
stalk with a knife taken out of his waist. Then he threw it into the well with
the sharp end down. We circled round the well and looked down to see what
happened.
The throw was so powerful that the feeble reed got stuck to the beeta at
the bottom of the well. Then he threw another reed down piercing the first
one’s blunt end with that. He sent in another. He kept on shooting a number
of darts that impeccably got transfixed to the previous ones’ ends, making a
chain of well-linked shafts. When the chain became long enough to reach
up to the opening of the well, he held the end of the last straw and easily
pulled the ball out of the well.
Recovery of the ring was much more breathtaking. This time, he used his
bow and arrows. I, meanwhile, noticed a slick quiver hang from his
shoulder with a handful of arrows. He fired the first arrow very powerfully.
It pierced the muddy ground of the well through the ring without touching
it. The arrow went mid-way into the ground. Then like before, he delicately
created a chain of arrows that stuck to the ground through the ring. Now
when he forcibly uprooted the chain, the first arrow came off the ground
with a little lump of earth that secured the ring from falling down from the
chain. The rest was easy, even for us.
The entire process got completed in such little time that we could not
even follow it properly. When we saw our ball and the ring back on ground,
we erupted in a most spontaneous round of applause.
‘Who are you sir? How could you manage to do all these?’
Such a drastic change in Duryodhana’s attitude towards the stranger did
not surprise us because we ourselves were completely awestruck. It is a
different matter that I would almost never discover such gentleness in
Duryodhana again!
‘Go back to your palace and tell your Pitamaha Bheeshma about me. I
am waiting here. I am sure he will recognise me.’
Pitamaha did. As soon as he heard of the stranger and his feat, he sprang
up from his seat exclaiming, ‘He must be Drona, an archer par excellence!
We must bring him here immediately.’
We thought bringing Drona to the city would be difficult but it was not.
Evidently, he himself wanted to meet Pitamaha .
Bheeshma, with due respect, invited him to Hastinapura and offered him
a prestigious appointment as the weapon teacher to the princes. Initially
hesitant, Drona agreed and made his way into Hastinapura in grand style.
Drona began his sojourn in Hastinapura as a venerable ‘Acharya’ of the
young princes. When he entered Hastinapura, he was a free man. He would
never leave Hastinapura. He would get enviable respect, importance and
material comfort in Hastinapura. Only, he would have to forfeit his
freedom. Drona traded off his maverick independence with a secure,
comfortable, yet much less respectable subservience. One day he would
find himself reduced to a bonded soldier, compelled to fight for a cause he
never respected and against one he always admired.
It became imperative for him not to survive the war. Drona was sensible
enough to realise it and renounced his life in the middle of the war, just
moments before being ‘killed’, in order to escape the ignominy of living
further!

-2-
Acharya Drona’s biggest problem, or weakness rather, was the fact that he
had a family.
In spite of being an extremely virtuous man and a genius archer, Drona
was never quite a successful family man. He was married to Kripi, the only
sister of our kulguru Kripacharya. Ashwatthama was their only son. Drona
had an immense ego. His hefty attitude did not let him take up
commonplace jobs. Drona and his family had been living an extremely
frugal life till our chance meeting with him on that unforgettable morning
got him instated in Hastinapura.
Drona’s real weakness was Ashwatthama, to be precise. In order to
understand Drona’s compulsions, it was almost mandatory to understand
the complex personality of Ashwatthama who mattered so much to Acharya
, influencing his priorities of life to a significant extent.
As Ashwatthama was growing up, Drona started to feel guilty for being a
parent not equal to the task. He had to shun his pride and wandered about in
search of a dignified livelihood. I once heard from Ashwatthama that he got
to taste milk much later in his life. When he was in his early teens, one of
his friends once played a cruel prank on him by giving him a whitish
inedible broth to drink passing it off as milk. Poor Ashwatthama, unaware
of the real taste of milk until then, guzzled it down gleefully amidst jeers
and taunts from his friends all around him. A delighted Ashwatthama came
rushing to his father to announce that he too had drunk milk, to his father’s
utter dismay.
‘My poor father still believes that I really thought I had drunk milk. I was
never that stupid. I knew such a vile tasting liquid could not have been
milk. I wanted to make my father happy with a lie. But unfortunately, he
had noticed the boys prepare that broth behind my back,’ Ashwatthama’s
face darkened while he narrated us the incident within only a few days after
they had permanently shifted to Hastinapura. I understood how difficult it
must have been for a young Ashwatthama. I immediately sympathised with
him. In spite of his allegiance to Duryodhana, Ashwatthama became very
dear to us; not only due to our sympathy for his difficult childhood, but
because of his innocent looks, poised manners, sensible judgements and of
course, exceptional archery skills which was second only to Arjuna’s. I
don’t know whether Ashwatthama bore Arjuna any jealousy or not; but his
attitude to us, especially to Arjuna, was always respectful.
 Today, I tell myself how little we knew of him!
Until that infernal night following the ultimate day of the war, we never
got to realise what demon our ‘dear’ Ashwatthama had kept hidden inside
himself!
Ashwatthama is still alive. That was Krishna’s terrible curse on him. He
will continue to live for another three thousand years contracted with
loathsome diseases—as Krishna cursed him.
I don’t know where he is now. The last thing I knew of him was that he
was suffering from leprosy. He has made himself totally obscure from
human notice and is living a deathless life that any living being would
cringe to think of.
Ashwatthama will always remain an enigma for me. Was he a
phenomenally gifted thespian who pretended to be a nice, sane human
being for such a long time, keeping his devilish tendencies so impeccably
masked?
It is hard to believe that. My own belief is that he possibly had a split
personality. Two different egoes with contrasting qualities were kept cached
in him. The less familiar one, which was also villainious in nature, came out
to the fore on that fateful night to unleash that qualmless mayhem. It is
strange that in spite of dealing us the most grievous blow that annihilated
our almost entire progeny, I cannot hate Ashwatthama in the true sense.
Instead, I pity him.
A priceless gem, ‘Chintamani’, was implanted on his forehead,
ostensibly right from his birth. I suspect it was not only ornamental, but also
was of some medicinal value meant for keeping his fractious mind in check.
I must say that the gem did an overall great job for Ashwatthama, but for
that single occasion. Today, that gem adorns my crown—as we gauged it
out of his forehead as a punishment.
Drona was definitely aware of such tendencies in Ashwatthama. That’s
why, Drona did not impart to him the complete knowledge of the
Brahmashirastra—the cosmic weapon of Lord Brahma—that he gave to
Arjuna. Just as expected from an astute Acharya like him, he was
impeccable in his assessment of his two best disciples—Arjuna and his own
son. But Drona did not intend to wean Ashwatthama away from the comfort
and plunge him once again into that uncertain, struggling life where a
draught of milk had been a luxury.
 -3-
‘What wrong have I done? I have killed a declasse Brahmin who sold
himself out to some heinous criminals! This pathetic man had no regards
for even his own disciples! This man desecrated dharma. I only rue the fact
that I have not been able to throw away his severed head far enough! Now
come congratulate me!’
This malicious tirade was Dhrishtadyumna’s, just after he had ‘killed’
Acharya by beheading him with a wild swing of his enormous sword.
Dhrishtadyumna did not mind that Acharya Drona had already died in a
deep meditation well before his fatal strike.
Dhrishtadyumna’s actions and comments were not approved by Arjuna
for obvious reasons. His weakness for Acharya was well known. Satyaki
was even more scathing. He started to castigate Dhrishtadyumna severely.
Dhrishtadyumna was not ready to accept Satyaki’s assault and he too gave
Satyaki an earful reminding him of his inappropriate killing of Bhurishrava.
The two got engaged in a serious altercation.
I was present there. Bheema, Sahadeva and others present there were
trying to interfere and calm down the two quarrelling heroes.
I did not offer any comment then. But today I admit without mincing
words that I could not blame Dhrishtadyumna deep inside my heart. Nor do
I feel ashamed now to admit that I found nothing wrong in his action. As far
as his obscene outburst against the dead Acharya was concerned—well, it
should have been toned down only to sound more elegant! But I don’t think
Dhrishtadyumna did not have a point.
Drona had become the commander-in-chief of the Kaurava army on the
eleventh day of the war, after the fall of Pitamaha Bheeshma. That day was
a watershed moment of the war. The battle suddenly turned more violent,
more ferocious, more uninhibited and of course, more devastating. Ethical
lines were frequently crossed and military codes regularly flouted right
under Drona’s nose which Bheeshma had never allowed. Notwithstanding
his unquestionable brilliance as a warrior, Drona fought ugly sometimes. In
my opinion, Drona’s limitations as a human being got reflected in the way
he led his army just as Bheeshma’s stature had been perfectly showcased in
his style of commanding.
 How can I ever forget that this venerable Acharya of ours advised Karna
to attack Abhimanyu from behind? Just imagine! And Abhimanyu, a
prodigious teenager, happened to be the son of his most favourite disciple
Arjuna—as a matter of fact! Drona, stung by Duryodhana’s impatience,
conducted an utterly disgraceful seven-to-one onslaught on poor
Abhimanyu to kill him!
This man, our Acharya Drona, unleashed the Brahmastra upon ill-
equipped foot-soldiers of our side.
This man made desperate attempts to capture me alive, keeping Arjuna
busy with a suicide squad (samshaptakas )—but failed.
Perhaps I could still have pardoned Acharya considering the
quintessential despondency of the transitional time that he, and we too, had
to live through.
But I cannot. The sight of one severed thumb always pollutes my mind
whenever I tend to forgive him! Sounds mystical, doesn’t it? But it is true.
Ekalavya, the tribal youth will never cease to haunt me, nor will the
unbelievable incident he was central to. Even after so many years, I fail to
remain composed while recollecting the story.
Acharya was so enamoured by Arjuna’s sensational archery skills that he
vowed to make him the greatest archer the world had ever produced. But
one day, a low-born Nishada boy Ekalavya displayed skills far better than
Arjuna’s and also claimed that Acharya was his inspirational guru. Arjuna’s
indignant question to Acharya still throbs in my ears,
‘Acharya , you promised to make me the greatest archer. How are you
going to keep your promise if that wizard of a boy claims himself to be your
student?’
‘I know very well how promises should be kept, my boy! Just wait and
watch.’ There was a sinister sternness in Acharya’s voice.
How Drona kept his promise is now well known. His controversial action
on that day still stokes debate about the ethics of unrighteous
manoeuverings ‘required’ to keep righteous promises. Drona had promised
Arjuna that no one would ever surpass him in archery skills. He knew he
could never make Arjuna a better archer than Ekalavya. But our Acharya
was ‘righteous’, as everybody knew! How else could he have kept his
promise that was too sacrosanct to be left unfulfilled? So, he, quite
‘righteously’, chose to ruin Ekalavya’s prospects in an unbelievably cruel
manner! Acharya demanded his gurudakshina from the poor Nishada boy
which was nothing but the boy’s right thumb!
I still remember that as Ekalavya chopped off his right thumb to pay
gurudakshina to his much revered Acharya who had taught him absolutely
nothing, a pungent feeling of hatred for Acharya welled up to my throat like
vomit. I tried my level best to find me some justification of his diabolical
treatment of a blossoming, dedicated youth so that I can hold back myself
from despising him—but I failed.
Acharya Drona’s queer concept of righteousness appalled me, to say the
least. After that incident, we all were returning home quietly, each
struggling hard to come to terms with it in our own ways. I heard Acharya
mutter, as if he was talking to himself, ‘We cannot let all and sundry take up
arms and break into the esteemed warrior class, can we? Society renders
opportunities and rights to a person according to the class he belongs. That
discipline should not be disrupted, is not it?’
I wished I could have run away from this pathetic man!
Drona’s lack of confidence in his own explanation was evident from the
interrogatives tailing his statements. His sheepish attempt to clear the air
was completely unnecessary as none of us had asked him to present his
case. That day, Acharya’ s dismal fall from grace did much more damage to
his own image than that it did to Ekalavya’s prospects. Though Ekalavya
never could become the kind of archer he had promised to be due to his
missing thumb, he successfully became an icon in his own right, universally
heralded as an epitome of devotion. What I would later hear of him was that
he still managed to become a moderately efficient archer and became close
to Jarasandha. Ekalavya died at the hands of none other than Krishna during
a battle between Magadha and the Yadavas.
Sorry Acharya !
It is an understatement that I could not blame Dhrishtadyumna for his
actions or words after killing our Dronacharya—actually I appreciated
Dhrishtadyumna with my silence, to be precise!

-4-
I deceived my Acharya with a fatal lie, that too for a reason as petty as
winning a war. We shammed Ashwatthama’s death on Krishna’s advice, in
order to demoralise the rampaging old man on the fifteenth day at
Kurukshetra. Acharya looked up to me to know if it was true, still holding
back his tears in a wishful expectation that he would not have to shed them.
‘Is my son really dead? Yudhisthira, please answer me. I want the answer
only from you,’ Acharya Drona asked the question in a faltering voice.
‘Y-yes Acharya , Ashwatthama has really been killed… .’ I cried aloud.
Then I deliberately whispered the next bit beyond the poor old man’s
audibility, ‘…I mean the elephant so named!’
Had I spoken the complete truth that moment, outcome of the war could
well have been different and the history of Bharatavarsha could have flown
in an entirely different brook. It was not Dhrishtadyumna who killed
Acharya, nor did Acharya self-immolate. It was my sly, misleading reply
that took Drona’s life—to put it most aptly.
My chariot suddenly jerked, as it seemed. Did the wheels of my ‘flying’
chariot come down to earth as a divine rebuke for my deception? That does
not trouble me much now either as I find no glory in staying detached from
the earth anymore. Krishna told me that my chariot’s hitherto smooth run
had symbolised my previous estrangement from reality. Earlier, I had
actually been pursuing a vague metaphysical abstraction misconstruing it as
the true idea of dharma . I had been unmindful of a simple fact that dharma
was to be founded in the midst of oblique realities of the earth, not in a
naive virtual space away from this world. It was Krishna who taught me to
become earthbound. He did not want me to waste away by pleasuring
myself with a vain pride of purity to produce a colossal disappointment at
the end. Krishna did not want me to become another ineffectual hero like
Pitamaha .
Something else haunts me today.
A strange, dazzling ray of light blinded me for a moment while Drona
was in the meditative trance after hearing the spurious news of his son’s
death. The light emanated from the frame of Acharya and disappeared into
the sky in the wink of an eye. Meanwhile, Dhrishtadyumna reached him
with his unsheathed sword and cut off his head.
Later, Krishna explained to me that the light had marked Acharya
Drona’s departure to heaven. It was ostensibly visible to only five people—
Kripacharya who was the brother-in-law and the closest companion of
Drona, Arjuna who was his dearest disciple, Sanjaya who had been
conferred occult powers to be able to give a live commentary of the battle
to a blind Dhritarashtra, Krishna, a god himself, and—me!
It was not difficult to understand why the other four became eligible to
witness this noble sight. But how did I qualify for so special a privilege,
especially when my shameful deception caused Acharya his death?
The mystery deepened when it occurred to me that Acharya was very
much aware of his son Ashwatthama’s boon of immortality and the fact that
he could never be killed in a war. Then why did Drona appear so perturbed
hearing the news of his son’s death which he knew to be purported? Did he
feign it? But why? Was Acharya actually looking for an appropriate excuse
to get out of the life that had become like a dungeon for him? Did he
consciously set up a drama that was to climax into his death?
Now I believe that though I meant to deceive him, I actually ended up
doing him a service perhaps! I naively danced to his tunes, helping him find
a graceful exit. My lie was probably one kind of gurudakshina , however
paid inadvertently. Nevertheless, it was no way as noble as Ekalavya’s quite
obviously!
Probably that was why I, Yudhisthira the Dharmaputra , was not
debarred from witnessing Acharya Drona’s journey towards heaven marked
by that sacred ray of light—a noble sight that only five special men got to
see. For one last time, Acharya Drona in his death reminded me of his
intrinsic extraordinariness—something I had long forgotten.
I was not at all feeling sad for having our Acharya killed. Nor was I
missing him the least. My love for my Acharya was long spent. But still, I
was feeling something contantly pricking me from inside. I soon understood
that my smarting self-esteem was the cause of the disturbing sensation. Yes.
I let myself down. I spat on my own image. I had insulted my noble descent
from the god of dharma by mouthing a murderous lie.
I would later turn to Vyasadeva for consolation.
‘My lord, does it reduce my sin that my deception actually helped
Acharya find the honourable death he himself had possibly wished?’ My
question to Vyasadeva was something like this.
‘It does not, my son. No doubt you have sinned and need to be washed
clean. A brief stint in hell would purify you,’ Vyasadeva said with a straight
face.
A stint in hell! It shook me.
‘No human being can escape hell and you are no exception. But don’t
worry so much. You yourself will not want to come out of hell once you
enter it! You will find all your near and dear ones there. You will salvage all
of them from the pangs of hell and duly regain paradise along with them,’
said Vyasadeva while walking away from me.
I could not make out whether it was a prophecy of the great sage, or his
sincere blessings or just a general statement iterating the most obvious,
eternal truth of life. Whatever be it, Vyasdeva failed to soothe my troubled
conscience—for once.
 16
The Martyred Progeny

-1-

I
cannot forgive myself when it occurs to me that I ascended the coveted
throne of Hastinapura tip-toeing on the piles of corpses of our little boys.
When I remember those lifeless youths lying slain on my way of
achieving it, our fighting the war and the so-called victory seem like a
tantalising paradox to me.
The thirteenth day of the Kurukshetra war was very different. In fact, it
had promised to be so even before it dawned. A number of ominous signs
threw a message in air that the day had something terrible in store. Cats and
pigs continued fighting ferociously throughout the night with deafening
snarls. The sun, blocked by some headless demons, rose, as if reluctantly,
with some very inauspicious constellations around. Vultures and other
carrion birds were seen in the sky in flocks, evidently in anticipation of a
feast awaiting them.
The first glance at the Kaurava army on that morning sent a chill down
my spine. I found the enormous army arrayed into the dreaded chakravyuha
—the impregnable wheel formation!
Nowadays, the chakravyuha has become an almost obsolete military
stratagem due to changed battle techniques involving smaller armies. In our
times too, it was a very rarely used battle formation, though for different
reasons. It required the highest degree of expertise to form and defend it.
Only a little imperfection in its formation and execution could have been
counter-productive. But if perfectly carried out, the chakravyuha guaranteed
victory, as it was well-nigh impossible to penetrate the formation. Very few
warriors in the whole country were able to create and conduct such
formation with success, and fewer knew how to break it open.
Only four persons apart from Acharya Drona and Pitamaha Bheeshma
had the ability to break into the wheel formation—Krishna, Arjuna,
Pradyumna (Krishna’s son) and Abhimanyu (Arjuna’s son). Pradyumna was
not a part of the battle. Right in the beginning of the day, Arjuna, with
Krishna driving his chariot, was taken aside to a remote part of the
battlefield by the samshaptakas —the avowed suicide squad consisting of
the Trigartas and the fearsome Narayani army.
Meanwhile, the monstrous Kaurava army, marshalled in an impeccable
chakravyuha , started moving towards us slowly, yet menacingly. It seemed
that our doom was approaching towards us with a languorous certainty.
‘Uncle, the stage is just meant for me ! Please let me go at it.’
I turned back with a severe start.
It was Abhimanyu. It was exactly what I feared!
But I would not let him go, come what may! Just inside a week, we had
lost Iravana—another son of Arjuna. Iravana was a mighty Naga prince. His
mother was Ulupi with whom Arjuna had had a breezy affair while he was
away from us on a self-imposed exile. The Naga army, ably led by Iravana
was wreaking havoc on the Kaurava army until he got killed by Alambusha,
the mighty Rakshasa son of Rishi Rishyashringa.
I did not want to snatch another son away from my brother Arjuna.

-2-
But our options were hopelessly limited. Bheema and Dhrishtadyumna
sensed the urgency. They rushed to me with desperation writ large on their
faces.
I looked at the approaching Kaurava army. It appeared like a monstrous
wheel laid on the ground. The formation was so perfect, so symmetrical that
I could not help admiring Acharya Drona’s mastery. The march of the
soldiers was so synchronised that the shape of the wheel was not being
disturbed. Drona positioned himself right in the centre of the wheel,
orchestrating the movements of his army.
 ‘Please Uncle. I beg of you! We don’t have much time to think.’
Abhimanyu implored, literally with his arms folded.
I looked at the beautiful face of that cute, ethereal-looking boy. He was
only eighteen years old and happened to be the youngest soldier on the
field. I noticed an unfamiliar determination stiffening his boyish innocence.
He knew what he was asking for. He meant business, for sure.
Abhimanyu was a prodigious archer—much like his famous father
Arjuna. In fact, at the same age, even Arjuna perhaps had not attained as
much proficiency as Abhimanyu did. There was uncanny similarity in the
ways they fought which used to delight the likes of Pitamaha Bheeshma
and Acharya Drona. But Abhimanyu’s resemblance with his illustrious
maternal uncle—Krishna—was more striking. He looked, behaved and
even sometimes talked like Krishna. Abhimanyu was our darling.
I imagined Pratibindhya (my son) in place of Abhimanyu, persuading me
with the same desperate earnestness to get unleashed on the Kauravas.
Would I have let my own son jump into such a potentially fatal adventure?
Yes, I would have. Had Pratibindhya been able to break into the
chakravyuha , I would have proudly let him go at it mumbling prayers
under my breath.
I nodded in bashful approval. Abhimanyu punched in air in delight.
Quickly, he bound his long, wavy hair in a top knot, put on his helmet and
was about to jump in his chariot. But he stopped abruptly, as if something
had occurred to him all of a sudden. Turning back, he walked up to me little
hesitantly.
Little curious, I asked, ‘Is something wrong, my child?’
‘Er…I forgot to mention one thing. I can force into it, but I don’t know
how to get out of it!’
At that time, it did not sound like a big problem as he was not to go into
the chakravyuha alone; rather a major regiment with all our warrior heroes
would be following him into it. We had actually planned to drill our army
into their formation and conduct a battle inside in order to disarray the
formation.
Bheema gave him a resounding thump on his back and said emphatically,
‘Don’t worry, son. What we need is just a foot into the door. You just make
way for us son, the rest we would manage.’
 ‘Excellent! Do follow me then. Hurry up!’ Abhimanyu hurriedly touched
our feet and did not even wait to receive our blessings.
The young warrior’s enthusiasm was disarmingly funny. Momentarily
oblivious of the grim crisis that was looming over us, Dhrishtadyumna and I
exchanged glances between ourselves and let out a nervous laughter.
Recalling that excruciating day is still so torturous!
Abhimanyu jumped into his chariot. He blew his conch and his chariot
raced away towards his destiny.
I ordered Bheema, Dhrishtadyumna and Satyaki to follow him as closely
as possible. Myself, Nakula, Sahadeva, Drupada and Virata too rushed our
chariots hard on their heels. Ghatotkacha and our other sons were left
behind to defend any sudden counter-attack by the Kauravas. I quickly
looked southwards with a faint hope that I would see Arjuna and Krishna
but they were out of my sight.
I fixed my eyes on Abhimanyu. He was meanwhile close to the
chakravyuha . I observed his technique anxiously. He told his charioteer
Sumitra to turn towards the point of the formation where herds of elephants
with mounted warriors were positioned. I could not understand why he
chose to run into the elephants. For a moment, a doubt about his ability
crossed my mind.
Soon I understood why he did so. Abhimanyu showered arrows on them.
The soldiers mounted atop the elephants started falling dead like ripe fruits.
But more importantly, his incessant arrows created a panic among the
elephants. A lot of elephants were killed by his arrows, and the other caused
a horrible pandemonium running helterskelter. The discipline of that part of
the formation was completely broken.
Abhimanyu’s blistering shooting did not allow anybody to come close to
him. To our utter delight, we found the elephants running away from him to
save their lives, making a gaping inroad for Abhimanyu to the chakravyuha
. He sneaked into the sea of enemy soldiers alone.
He had successfully done his job. Now, it was our job to follow him into
the enemy vyuha , as planned. I shouted at Bheema, Dhrishtadyumna and
Satyaki to be on trail of Abhimanyu. They rushed breakneck towards the
opening created by the young champion.
I heard Duryodhana’s distorted voice from afar. He was hysterically
shouting at Acharya Drona, ‘How the hell can that precocious brat break
your formation under your very nose? Are you just a spectator here, or
actually helping them out?’
I could not hear Acharya’s reply due to the din and bustle around. But I
was really surprised to see the chariot of Jayadrath, the king of Sindhu and
the brother-in-law of Duryodhana, rattle to the fore to block the opening
that Abhimanyu had created. I was surprised because Jayadrath had never
played any crucial or decisive role in the battle so far. He, though a well-
trained archer, was an ultra-cautious, defensive kind of a warrior and was
not expected to create any significant impact on a battle of such dimension.
I was rather pleased to see him there as I was sure Bheema and others
would make a short work of him.
But as I mentioned earlier, that day was different. Jayadrath displayed
unbelievable valour that day. First he thwarted Bheema with torrents of
arrows. Then he stunned Dhrishtadyumna and Satyaki. Meanwhile, we
joined them and all of us started raining arrows, javelins, shafts on him.
But, incredibly, Jayadrath withstood everything and fended off our
desperate onslaught.
Jayadrath’s achievements on that particular day made me remember with
horror the story that could explain his uncharacteristic gallantry. As a
punishment for his failed attempt to abduct Draupadi, Bheema had
humiliated him badly. A degraded Jayadrath vowed to take revenge and
later worshipped Lord Shiva. As legend had it, he asked for a boon to
destroy us. Lord Shiva apparently granted him the boon that for only one
single day, he would be able to defeat all of us, save Arjuna.
The boon came good at the expense of Abhimanyu—the apple of our
eyes.
Jayadrath was fighting like a man possessed, lending serious credence to
the legend. He stood like a great wall between the entrance to the
chakravyuha and us. As time passed by, we were getting really impatient.
To my horror, I saw that a part of their army had regrouped and the chink
created by Abhimanyu was repaired while Jayadrath kept us at bay.
Abhimanyu was trapped alone inside the enemy army! I was hearing the
sound of his conch that he was repeatedly blowing and the twang of his
bow. He was calling us! The little boy was finding no support. Surrounded
by enemies, he badly needed company!
 I felt cramps all over my body. He was not visible to us. I noticed a
serious turbulence deep inside the Kaurava formation—that meant
Abhimanyu was fighting tooth and nail and created quite a flutter inside.
Bheema, with his mace in hand, was ducking against Jayadrath’s arrows
and trying desperately to move close to him. Bheema wanted to use his
mace on Jayadrath. But Jayadrath’s missiles did not let Bheema move
forward. Our other heroes too were kept contained by him.
I was dying to know how Abhimanyu was doing inside the chakravyuha .
Suddenly I heard Duryodhana crying in a voice almost unrecognisable,
‘Look… look…there lies my son killed! And all of you are standing idle! Is
this what I deserve from you?’
Abhimanyu had killed Laxmana, the eldest and the most favourite son of
Duryodhana! I was thrilled. But at the same time I became even more
worried about him because now Duryodhana and his men would become
like mad dogs. But there was Acharya Drona standing tall on the ground.
He must surely resist those classless goons from doing anything atrocious, I
tried to assure myself.
Abhimanyu had successfully pierced through a series of inner circles to
reach the core circle of the chakravyuha , which comprised of Drona,
Karna, Duryodhana, Kripa, Shalya, Shalya’s son Rukmaratha,
Ashwatthama, Brihadbala, Shakuni, Duhshasana, Kritabarma, Laxmana,
and Duhshanana’s son. Abhimanyu defeated all of them, including Drona
and Karna, in hair-raising single combats. Rukmaratha, Brihadbala and
Laxmana were killed on the spot. Acharya Drona was apparently so amazed
at his skill that he could not help gushing praises that infuriated
Duryodhana even more. Karna, beaten black and blue by Arjuna’s young
son, requested Acharya to take some drastic, desperate measures to save the
day.
‘If you really so want, Anga Raj , then assault the boy from behind !’
Ostensibly, that was Drona’s instruction to Karna, to deal with the son of
his most favourite disciple! Had I not witnessed Acharya’s inhuman
treatment of Ekalavya many years back, I would not have believed easily
that Acharya could stoop that low.
Karna carried out his orders successfully. From behind, he first cut
Abhimanyu’s bow, killed his charioteer and smashed his chariot. Then six
‘great’ war heroes—Drona, Karna, Duryodhana, Kripa, Ashwatthama and
Shakuni—mercilessly marauded the tired, weaponless boy.
The gritty, courageous boy carried on his fight for life with things like
wheels of the chariot, broken sword, flagstaff and the like, till Duhshasana’s
son struck a fatal blow on his head to clinch the matter once and for all.
Abhimanyu, apparently, ensanguined with blood and dust, tottered and
fell on Acharya Drona while dying, smearing the face and the body of
Drona with his own blood. Yudhajit, one brave foot-soldier who was
desperately trying to force into the innermost circle to come to
Abhimanyu’s aid, would later tell me that Acharya burst into tears while
Abhimanyu was breathing his last in Drona’s embrace.
The Kauravas profaned the codes of a righteous war first with that
abominable cruelty that still makes a sane mind cringe.
The incident burst asunder the shackles of all ethical inhibitions. We
would later avenge Abhimanyu’s gruesome death by eliminating Jayadrath,
Acharya Drona, Karna, Duryodhana one by one—all by morally suspect
ways. We would pay our homage to the incredible sacrifice of that
outstanding young boy with a promiscuous bloodfest.
But did we resort to crooked ways only to avenge Abhimanyu’s death?
No. That is my honest confession. We needed deception in order to win
the war any way.

-3-
‘If he lives past tomorrow’s sunset, I will burn myself to death. That is my
word of honour!’
To avenge his son’s death, Arjuna swore to kill Jayadrath the next day
before sunset, failing which he would burn himself to death!
It absolutely made no sense to me. Why did Arjuna hold Jayadrath, of all
people, solely responsible for Abhimanyu’s death? Jayadrath had not killed
Abhimanyu, nor had he plotted it. Rather, he had fought like a true warrior,
single-handedly thwarting all our advances showing uncharacteristic valour.
He just did his job perfectly—to our despair nonetheless! I could never
blame Jayadrath for Abhimanyu’s death. Arjuna should have pledged to kill
Acharya Drona or Karna or Ashwatthama or Shalya or Kripa or even
Duryodhana who were the real culprits, not Jayadrath—a lesser warrior and
the least culpable of them.
Arjuna would keep his promise, nevertheless. He managed to kill
Jayadrath the next day just moments shy of sunset, but not without the help
of Krishna who had to rediscover his divine self once again to save the day
for Arjuna and us.
We would have easily forgotten Jayadrath’s death unless two
unbelievable acts of sacrifice, riveted to either side of his death, formed a
thrilling sequence of events between the thirteenth and the fifteenth day of
the war. If Abhimanyu’s sacrifice helped us avert a certain disaster that day;
Ghatotkacha, by giving away his life, secured our victory by removing the
mortal threat that had been looming over Arjuna for long.
Duryodhana could not digest the death of Jayadrath who was his only
sister’s husband and became inconsolable. In order to calm him down,
Acharya Drona let the battle be continued even past sunset, and made a
colossal tactical blunder by doing so. He was totally unmindful of the
presence of a certain Ghatotkacha on our side. Ghatotkacha, being a
Rakshasa , used to become more powerful at night. Though the Kauravas
also had two mighty Rakshasas (Alambusha and Alayudha) in their ranks,
they were no match for Ghatotkacha. I always noticed that Pitamaha
Bheeshma never allowed a day’s battle to roll beyond sunset. He had
highest regards for Ghatotkacha’s abilities and was very cautious of him.
But Drona underestimated Ghatotkacha only to his army’s peril.
That horrible nocturnal war still disturbs my sleep. Foot-soldiers were
holding weapons in one of their hands and burning torches in the other.
Archers had torches fastened to the flagpoles of their chariots. Warriors
mounted on elephants kept lamps fixed to haudahs . There was an
indescribable melee in the battlefield where everybody of us seemed to be
reveling in a gut-wrenching orgy of death, massacre and devastation.
The battle too was topsy-turvy. The Kauravas had started their night
campaign with a menacing intent which hardly bore any indication of the
reversal they would suffer shortly. Acharya Drona, Karna and Ashwatthama
launched a devastating onslaught on the Panchalas, the Srinjayas and the
Kekayas. Ashwatthama killed a number of Rakshasa soldiers, including
Ghatotkacha’s young son Anjanaparva. Drona was destroying the
Panchalas.
 But Karna was superlative that night. His incessant arrows were
showering death on my army. He was simply unstoppable. Karna’s
rampaging form brought smiles back on Duryodhana’s face.
Arjuna, too, was blazing hot in another part of the battlefield, unleashing
a similar kind of terror among the Kaurava soldiers. The stage was just
perfect for the two arch-rivals to take on each other. I beaconed Arjuna to
come towards me to hold a quick conference with him. Krishna, Arjuna’s
charioteer, turned the chariot and drove towards me.
I asked Arjuna to take care of Karna. Arjuna was immediately ready and
asked Krishna to take the chariot to Karna. But Krishna seemed to be
disinterested to face Karna. He appeared thoughtful.
Whenever I used to get the feeling that Krishna was thinking something
or had something to say, I would just forget any other thing in the world—I
would even stop breathing till Krishna parted with what he had in his mind.
‘I don’t think it is the right time for Arjuna to confront Karna.’
The little pause of Krishna seemed endless. Arjuna frowned at him,
taking it as an affront on his abilities. But it was not so exactly. Krishna
reminded us of a dark fact which we had almost forgotten.
‘Karna is still in possession of the divine shakti (lance or javelin) that
Lord Indra gifted to him. This weapon can be invoked only once; but it will
never fail. Karna has kept it treasured only for Arjuna for years. This
terrible night is going to be decisive. I fear he can use it on Arjuna if they
face each other now.’
Arjuna pulled his face long. I waited for Krishna to come up with a
solution as I always knew Krishna would never leave me with any problem
unresolved.
‘Acharya Drona has acted unwisely by conducting the war in night and
that gives us an opportunity. He overlooked that we have an unbeatable
Rakshasa on our side. His strength becomes manifold at night. I am sure he
can work wonders now. We must set Ghatotkacha on them without any
delay.’
Ghatotkacha was summoned. The gigantic demon walked up to us with
massive strides, shaking the earth with each footstep. Though crossbred of
human and Rakshasa , he retained his mother’s physical features more than
his father Bheema’s. He was bluish-dark complexioned, hirsute, crimson-
eyed, sharp-fanged, profusely bearded and sported a bizarre tuft of hair atop
a pot-shaped head. Besides having the typical Rakshasa strength,
Ghatotkacha was an accomplished warrior too with phenomenal mace-
fighting and archery skills. What was more, he was a master of sorcery and
had a wide repertoire of occult weapons. But in contrast to his intimidating
appearance, Ghatotkacha was innocently tender inside—a trait which he
inherited from his father most obviously. The eldest of our next generation,
he was a perfect role model inspiring his younger cousins, including
Abhimanyu.
Ghatotkacha readily obliged us. He, along with his huge Rakshasa army,
pounced upon the Kauravas ferociously. Let alone the Kaurava soldiers,
even our soldiers became nervous lest he or his rampaging army confuse
between the opponent and the same side in the darkness of the night!
No Kaurava heroes could quell Ghatotkacha. He thrashed everyone
brutally. Ghatotkacha was slaughtering Kaurava soldiers like a nonchalant
farmer scything grasses all around him without being too conscious! There
was a dreadful pandemonium in the Kaurava formation as everyone was
trying to stay out of his reach.
Duryodhana set Alambusha and Alayudha on Ghatotkacha to contain
him. Ghatotkacha wrenched out Alayudha’s head and hit Duryodhana with
it, knocking him out of his chariot. Alambusha gave Ghatotkacha a good
fight but the latter was too much for him. Killing Alambusha, Ghatotkacha
avenged the death of Iravana and let out a furious cry that felled a number
of soldiers in dead faint.
Karna’s missiles injured him a bit. An outraged Ghatotkacha invoked his
mystic powers. The Kauravas started to visualise bizarre illusions on the
battleground and could not make out what was real and what unreal. The
wily Rakshasa exploited their bewilderment to the fullest and continued
destroying the Kaurava battalions. The Kaurava force suffered the biggest
casualty in that night and was in for certain rout.
Even Acharya Drona was clueless. Meanwhile, Duryodhana screwed up
some courage to face Ghatotkacha but had to run away after a brief fight,
brutally mauled.
‘Use your divine shakti on that monster, O Anga Raj Karna!’
An unknown voice was suddenly heard from a large throng of Kaurava
soldiers retreating away from Ghatotkacha. Karna recoiled visibly,
disgusted at the temerity of that nameless foot-soldier who dared give him
advice! That cheeky soldier perhaps did not know how affectionately Karna
had kept that particular weapon close to his chest, waiting for the opportune
moment to let it fly at his most dreaded rival Arjuna to win the battle of his
life! Little could that petty soldier realise what it actually meant for Karna.
A different voice, from another quarter, was heard giving Karna the same
piece of advice. Karna, trembling with anger, turned to the new voice with a
jerk. Then another one shouted from far away with the same request. Then
another! Soon there was a deafening chorus all around Karna. Numerous
voices were pleading with him in unison to unleash his most lethal weapon
at this hour of grave crisis.
Duryodhana’s caustic remark was heard at last, ‘Karna, perhaps you have
not yet seen enough blood on me! Go home my friend; raise a toast to my
ashes!’
Duryodhana had never sounded so tired!
‘You better keep honing your shaft for Arjuna and allow that horrible
monster to munch on our corpses! Oho…what a great friend you are!’ That
was Shakuni speaking with an obnoxious taunt.
‘You have to live this day first before you get to kill Arjuna another day!
Karna, my friend, can’t you see our ruin rush towards us fast and furious,’
Duryodhana was almost on the verge of tears. I didn’t think he feigned it.
We had been watching the developments with rapt attention as the fate of
the battle seemed to be hanging from a cliff of Karna’s decision. Millions of
pairs of eyes stayed fixed on Karna.
I saw him shut his eyes with folded hands. His lips were muttering some
sacred hymns in order to invoke the shakti of Lord Indra. A bolt flashed in
the overcast sky, with a deafening rumble reverberating close on its heels.
Lord Indra had responded to Karna’s prayer, evidently.
Suddenly, an enormous spear appeared in Karna’s right hand. The spear
was so dazzling that it lit up Karna’s silhouette against the night sky. I
clearly saw a scowl on Karna’s face. Evidently, he was doing it against his
wish.
I held my breath. An unbearable suspense made every moment seem as
lengthy as eternity. I looked at Ghatotkacha. He understood very well that
his time was up. But he looked surprisingly calm; in fact, calmer than he
had ever been before.
 Karna hurled the divine javelin at Ghatotkacha amidst wild cheers from
the Kaurava soldiers.
It rushed towards Ghatotkacha like a blazing meteor that travelled across
the night sky leaving a sparkling trail along its trajectory. It struck our
Ghatotkacha on his chest, pierced him through and disappeared into the sky
to return to its owner.
Though fatally struck, Ghatotkacha showed why he was so special. He
invoked his last magic and bloated his stature a hundred times to assume a
colossal volume. Then he deliberately fell on Duryodhana’s massive army
flattening a major portion of it under his humongous body! He breathed his
last and under his body, millions of Kaurava soldiers breathed theirs too. He
had developed such an incorrigible habit of doing good to us that even
during his dying moments he could not help doing so.
At his fall, the night suddenly appeared darker to us. We were beset by
inconsolable sadness. Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva huddled together and
bitterly wept. Bheema clutched the flagpole of his chariot and hid his face.
His body was shivering, though no sound of sob was being heard. Bheema,
known for his typically wild demonstrations of emotion, showed surprising
restraint in mourning his beloved son—so intensely private the grief was to
him.
How does a father feel when his son, to whom he could never give much
time, concern and care, resurfaces in his life only to die a magnanimous
death? And that too for his father’s cause? I correctly perceived the
presence of a feeling of guilt in Bheema’s subdued lament. Dhrishtadyumna
was rushing towards Bheema to console him. I stopped him. Bheema
deserved to be left alone at that trying moment. Even a brave warrior like
him sometimes needed to unburden through tears and sighs. I did not want
anybody, not even Dhrishtadyumna, to be privy to my brother’s most
private encounter with his own self.
Though I understood that Bheema’s lament had complex elements,
Krishna’s bizarre exuberance after Ghatotkacha’s fall appeared
unbelievably distasteful to all of us and simply stunned me into silence.
‘You are safe, Arjuna! Karna’s weapon has been spent. Nothing can stop
us from winning this war now.’ Krishna shouted gleefully.
It was true no doubt that Arjuna was safe. It was also true that we all felt
much relieved for that. But was not that time more appropriate for a sincere
mourning for the brave Ghatotkacha, than a celebration for Arjuna’s
freedom from a threat?
Bheema was terribly hurt. So were we, including Arjuna. Krishna had
never appeared so unfamiliar to me. Just inside the last two days we lost
Abhimanyu and Ghatotkacha. Ghatotkacha’s superhuman achievement left
a more decisive impact on the outcome of the war than Abhimanyu’s. Did
not Ghatotkacha deserve at least the same respect that his younger cousin
had commanded?
I could not help reminding Krishna how sincerely Ghatotkacha had
served us throughout his life, expecting absolutely nothing for himself or
his mother in return. Ghatotkacha had always known that he and his mother
would never become a part of our glory. He would have never become our
true heir, nor would he have been given a respectable place in Hastinapur or
Indraparstha. Yet he fought our war as if it was his own and gave away his
life for our cause. Perhaps being a non-human helped him act so selflessly.
No. I could never become that ungrateful to trivialise the contribution of
my brave nephew.
Krishna regained his usual poise. His momentary frivolity completely
disappeared; making me think whether Krishna had really behaved that way
or it was just a weird figment of my dark imagination. He genuinely agreed
to everything I said of Ghatotkacha.
But Krishna had something more to say about him which might sound
untimely and unjust if taken out of the particular perspective of Krishna’s
singular interpretation of dharma .
‘Ghatotkacha should not have survived the war, please don’t mind me
saying this. That monster was anti-Brahmin and quintessentially heretic.
His great contribution to this war will never be forgotten but I daresay, he
was potentially detrimental to the dharmarajya we are aspiring for.’
Krishna said that looking far away at the horizon where darkness was
just about to be expelled to end that dreadful, spine-chilling night.
Krishna’s sombre words pleased none of us, Bheema in particular. An
acute melancholy gripped everybody. Krishna stepped towards Bheema and
held his arms with compassion.
‘Don’t mourn him, Bheema. Your mighty son has died well. No other
Rakshasa has ever given away his life for a cause—let alone a right cause.
He will always be remembered as a true hero, a great warrior and a
remarkable being epitomising bravery, sincerity and sacrifice.’
Bheema broke down into tears and unleashed his profound grief into a
violent cry that he had long held back.
A question reared in my mind. If Ghatotkacha was really such a serious
threat to all noble constitutions, why was he then allowed to fight for us?
But I did not ask Krishna the question as I knew for sure what his reply
would have been: ‘Elementary! We needed his service to win the war.’
However, Krishna’s aspersions did not make any dents to my love for
Ghatotkacha. Whatever Krishna had said of him might have been a ruthless
actuality but I could not accept it as the absolute yardstick to judge my
Ghatotkacha.
For once, I felt that being a human makes me more privileged than a god.
I am at liberty to love or hate anyone without any logic or justification. I do
not owe anyone any explanation for that. Krishna’s godliness precluded him
to shower love on the monster though his human side perhaps wished
otherwise. For once, I did not envy Krishna!
That great son of Bheema will always remain in my heart.

-4-
A nocturnal owl proved to be such a nemesis for us!
It was night time at Kurukshetra. The war had been over just a little
before sunset. Duryodhana’s colossal army was completely decimated. Of
the eleven akshauhini -strong Kaurava army, only four people—
Ashwatthama, Kripacharya, Kritavarma and Duryodhana were alive.
Though still alive, Duryodhana was lying mortally injured with his thighs
completely crushed by Bheema’s mace, at Samanta Panchak near
Kurukshetra. Winning back everything Duryodhana had tricked away from
us, we went to sleep victorious at a make-shift camp at Samanta Panchak.
The remnant of our army, including our five sons, Dhrishtadyumna and
Shikhandi, was camping at Kurukshetra. Satyaki was with us.
The three tired Kaurava survivors—Ashwatthama, Kripacharya and
Kritavarma—were spending the night under a century-old banyan tree.
They were trying to summon some sleep at the end of the harrowing,
devastating day.
Kripa and Kritavarma were asleep beneath the tree. Ashwatthama could
not sleep. Apparently, he had not been able to digest the crushing defeat of
the Kaurava army, and particularly his father Drona’s death. That he could
not avenge his father’s death was tormenting him.
Suddenly, there was a violent flutter up in the tree which woke up Kripa
and Kritavarma. One owl had assaulted some helpless crows asleep on the
tree. The three vanquished soldiers observed with horror the rampaging owl
brutally killing his sleeping enemies with its sharp beak and claws. Soon,
the ground beneath the tree became littered with mutilated, dead crows
fallen from the tree. Successful in his vengeful mission, the owl flew away.
Ashwatthama got the idea. He muttered to himself, ‘What that owl just
did is nothing but convey a message of God. It has taught me how to deal
with our enemies. They must now be fast asleep, with the sweet taste of
victory in their mouths. It is the time for us to strike! I swear by Lord Shiva,
they will never wake up to another morning!’
Krishna suddenly woke us up at Samanta Panchak. We had been sleeping
peacefully like children with all the happiness in the world. But an occult
intuition had just crossed Krishna’s mind. He sprang up from his bed. In a
somnolent drawl, I asked Krishna what the matter was.
‘Brother Yudhisthira, the battle is not yet over, I am afraid. I am wary of
Ashwatthama. None of you know what stuff he actually is made of and
even less can you imagine what he is capable of doing! We should
immediately rush back to our camps at Kurukshetra. I get a feeling that
something terrible is going to happen.’
We heard the sound of a horse’s hooves from a distance. Someone was
rushing towards us on horseback. As the horse-rider came closer, we all
could recognise him. He happened to be Dhrishtadyumna’s charioteer. But
why was he wearing such an awful look? My heart thumped, fearing the
worst.
He broke the news to us. A diabolical Ashwatthama had butchered our
entire next generation in the darkness of the night, almost ensuring the
extinction of the great Kuru line of descent!
By the time we reached the camp at Kurukshetra, it was about to be
dawn. We found the guards with throats slit open, lying dead in a pool of
blood near the entrance.
The scene inside the camp resembled that of a slaughterhouse! Hacked
human body parts were strewn everywhere. The floor and the walls were all
red; even the roof was not spared of the splatter of blood. Except
Dhrishtadyumna’s, I found no other dead body in one piece. The manner in
which they had been killed clearly bore the signature of a pervert
psychopath on a murdering spree!
Dhrishtadyumna was lying dead with a horrible last expression
permanently frozen on his face. His eyes were bulging, mouth wide open
and tongue stuck out. His lifeless body lay abnormally twisted.
Ashwatthama had asphyxiated a sleeping Dhrishtadyumna by pressing his
ankle on our brother-in-law’s throat. Ashwatthama had not used weapons to
kill Dhrishtadyumna, the killer of his father, to give him a more torturous
death and to deny him the honour of being killed by the strike of a weapon.
Quite selfishly, my eyes were roaming about to find Pratibindhya, my
son, among the litter of dead bodies. With some difficulty, I found him at
last. Sorry! I actually found his head instead, cut off far away from his
body. Kripacharya would let me know later that Ashwatthama had
apparently pulled him by his hair to get him out of sleep and separated the
head from the trunk with a single swing of his sword. Then he had flung the
severed head of my son with such a disdain as if it was a rotten fruit.
Shikhandi was most brutally killed. We found his corpse vertically
bifurcated which reminded me of Jarasandha’s dead body. Perhaps
Ashwatthama had pierced Shikhandi’s stomach first, and then moved his
sword upwards inside his body to cut him into two halves.
Shataneek, Nakula’s son, was also lying beheaded. Shrutakarma and
Shrutasena—the sons of Arjuna and Sahadeva lay side by side. Both of
them had very deep gashes on their chests. Probably they had been fighting
Ashwatthama together and had received death together too. We initially
could not find Sutasoma—Bheema’s son. Finally, we found him outside the
camp, dead with more than twenty stabs all over his body. Evidently, he had
been pursuing Ashwatthama even outside the tent and paid the price of his
desperation.
Strange! None of us cried. None of us uttered a single word of
exclamation. We trudged through the mutilated, hacked, shredded bodies of
our sons, relatives, friends and still neither a single drop of tear streamed
down, nor did a single sound break open our hard-pressed lips. We could
only hear our tempestuous breaths. The macabre shock and profound grief
had seemingly turned us into some animated sculptures. It seemed our
lachrymal glands dried up all of a sudden. We all realised that we badly
needed to cry otherwise we would go insane.
I slapped myself once—twice—thrice. Bheema landed a tight slap on
Arjuna’s face. Arjuna scratched Bheema’s face with his nails. Nakula and
Sahadeva pulled at each other’s hairs. We needed to make ourselves cry, at
any cost!
Finally, could we cry! Tears flew in torrents. The crazy laments of some
accursed fathers were heard from afar. Even Krishna, who had not shed
tears even after Abhimanyu’s death, wept like an ordinary human being. We
had the special distinction, if not dubious, of witnessing a god cry.
Krishna’s tears ignited fire in our minds once again.
I sent Nakula to Upaplabya to fetch Draupadi. By the time she reached
Kurukshetra, the mangled bodies had been assembled and laid to high
sandalwood pyres.
Draupadi did not cry either. She climbed up each pyre to see how her
sons and brothers looked now. She was walking unusually slowly, the pallu
of her sari was trailing her, sweeping along the ground. Her hands hung like
two useless members of her body. We forgot to shed tears and watched her
with bated breath. She looked like an apparition wandering about in a world
of the dead—without any emotion, expression or exclamation.
After seeing the dead faces of her five sons, Dhrishtadyumna and
Shikhandi, she walked towards me at a snail’s pace. Her seething breath
was sounding like a serpent’s agitated hiss. Her lips trembled slightly. Her
voice sounded eerily masculine, devoid of even a grain of femininity.
‘Get me Ashwatthama! You hear me, O the great King Yudhisthira? Just
get me Ashwatthama!’
We still would have to do so, had she not so ordered. He snatched away
our future from us! He made our god cry! He left us with no other option
but to search him out from wherever he was. While we were wiping out
tears from our eyes and faces, the only thing we had in mind was that we
had to get Ashwatthama.
I believe now that it was a decree of destiny that we would have another
meeting with Ashwatthama.
 Because, his last blow was yet to be dealt.

-5-
We found him in the hermitage of Vyasadeva. He was rather innocuously
seated, in the midst of a number of ascetics and rishis .
On seeing us, Ashwatthama stood up. It was obviously not difficult for
him to realise that we had not come exactly to exchange pleasantries. There
was manifest fear in his eyes. But there were something more in his eyes
besides fear, too.
I suspected that Ashwatthama had lost his mental balance. No sane man
could have stared the way he did. Besides familiar expressions like
astonishment, fear and anger, there was a certain impassivity in his gaze
indicating a complete lull in logical thought process. He was evidently not
in a position to realise the exact gravity of his crime; less did he have any
clear idea about the consequence of what he was going to do.
Ashwatthama took one step forward. He wobbled his head to the left with
an awkward jerk and bared his teeth. He laughed—exactly like a hyena!
The freakiness in his stare had meanwhile turned into a sinister, diabolical
craziness.
We stopped advancing towards him. My instinct told me that
Ashwatthama had to be handled cautiously. His demented mood frightened
us. But Bheema recklessly rushed towards him, wielding his mace
intimidatingly. We could not stop Bheema who completely overlooked the
danger he was running into.
Ashwatthama bent down and plucked a fistful of grass. Then he started
chanting a hymn that I had never heard before. What was he up to?
‘Confound it! He is invoking the Brahmashira (the supreme weapon of
Lord Brahma)! This will be the certain end of the world if that imbecile is
allowed to release it! He has to be stopped by whatever means! Arjuna…
Arjuna, do something!’
That was the only time I saw Krishna go hysteric. We were aware that
the weapon was capable of ruining the entire universe and that was why it
was never to be used. Though Arjuna too was able to call on the
Brahmashira, he had never even thought of using it. Krishna’s panic lent
credence to whatever we had heard about the power of the weapon.
Ashwatthama continued chanting with his eyes shut. No sooner had he
stopped chanting, than a colossal flame of fire blazed up in the grasses held
in his hand. Ashwatthama threw the grasses down and a terrible fire broke
out all around. The fluttering flames of the extraordinary fire seemed to be
touching the sky. The Brahmashira was evidently on its way through the
conflagration of universal annihilation!
There were frightful cries all around. Vyasadeva himself was visibly
perturbed. The other sages were shouting curses and profanities on
Ashwatthama. Some rishis started reciting noble incantations to please the
deities prior to the imminent doom which they accepted as inevitable.
‘Arjuna, you too invoke the Brahmashira! Quick!’
Arjuna took some moments to realise what Krishna had asked him to do.
He hesitated. I noticed Arjuna gulp which clearly revealed his tension.
‘It is no time to think, Arjuna. Do whatever I say. Quick! The
Brahmashira can be thwarted only by another Brahmashira and nothing
else.’
Arjuna too unleashed the Brahmashira. Another monstrous conflagration
broke out and it rushed towards the fire created by Ashwatthama’s weapon.
The situation was indescribable. Two supreme weapons were
pugnaciously pitted against each other creating a bizarre stalemate. A
horrible tempest started brewing. The ground under our feet started shaking
and cracking. All living objects around were encircled by rings of fire.
Enormous smokes were spiraling upwards to mix with the clouds. The sky
assumed an ashen pallor giving out a premonition of the imminent
apocalypse.
Deities, demi-gods and divine beings appeared on the sky. Debarshi
Narada instructed that the weapons be revoked at once. Vyasadeva ordered
Ashwatthama and Arjuna to rescind their weapons immediately.
Now, it was a real taste of class of the two warriors. Revoking the
Brahmashira was even more difficult. Besides skill of the highest order, it
required absolute control over one’s own mind and senses. Arjuna was not
only a technically superior warrior to Ashwatthama, but he was also a
superior human being with much more balanced, mature personality.
Acharya Drona had been aware of the dark proclivities of his own son
Ashwatthama and had not given him the complete knowledge about the
weapon. Arjuna had earned it from Acharya proving his mettle. While
Arjuna could withdraw his weapon, Ashwatthama, quite expectedly, could
not. Everybody, divine or mortal, present there pressurised him to withdraw
the weapon.
Ashwatthama’s sanity was evidently returning. He desperately tried to
withdraw the Brahmashira, but failed. The threat to the universe continued
to prevail as Ashwatthama’s weapon remained uninterrupted.
Finally, Ashwatthama came up with a ‘suggestion’.
‘Let me divert it to wards the womb of Uttara (Abhimanyu’s wife) who is
pregnant with Abhimanyu’s baby. It will kill only an unborn embryo to
keep the damage to a token minimum.’
Vyasdeva condoned it, so did the other noble beings present there, as it
seemed the only way to avert the universal annihilation.
Minimum damage! What Uttara was carrying in her womb was the future
of an ancient dynasty. The great Kuru house had pinned its last hope on that
tiny blob of flesh in order to stay extant. The Brahmashira spoiled the
embryo in Uttara’s womb, though it did not harm her. The entire universe
survived the wrath of Ashwatthama’s devastating weapon at the expense of
the great Kuru’s noble line of descent.
Over three decades after that infernal day, now when I look at Pareekshit,
it seems to me that all the defining characteristics of our clan have been
precisely summed up in that mighty, bright, intelligent, blossoming youth
who is about to be anointed as my successor to the throne of Hastinapura in
a few days. Pareekshit—the only son of Abhimanyu—is our sole heir. In
spite of Ashwatthama’s assault, Pareekshit happened to us courtesy
Krishna. Uttara had initially given birth to a still-born son, killed by
Ashwatthama’s weapon at the foetal stage. Krishna enlivened the baby by
his divine charm. Our last ray of hope, flickering precariously in a stormy
wind, was kept alive by our god. With our next generation lying mangled in
the abattoir of dharma , we had thought all was lost. Nevertheless, Krishna
pulled us out of a deep gorge of despair one more time by giving us
Pareekshit—the gift of our lives!
 17
The Payback

-1-

I
t was the seventeenth day of the war. Bheema woke up in early morning
with a special determination. He entered my tent in a huff. I had just
finished my prayers and was fastening my cuirass before going to war.
‘Enough of it! That scoundrel Duhshasana has lived enough! He has
managed to stay away from me thus far, but I swear I will give him a
horrible death today!’ Bheema shouted.
Thanks to Krishna’s impeccable guidance, we happened to be better
placed than the Kauravas now. After sixteen days of bloodshed,
Duryodhana had already suffered losses of stalwarts like Bheeshma, Drona,
Bhagadatta, Bhurishrava, Jayadrath, Alambusha, Alayudha, Somadatta,
Brihadbala, Bahlika, Lakshmana to name a few. Save Karna, Ashwatthama,
Kripa and Shalya, Duryodhana was left with no other top-class warrior. As
the Kauravas had started floundering, it seemed to be the right time to
deliver a body blow to disintegrate them psychologically.
What Bheema would do on that day was such a monstrous strike to the
morale of the Kaurava army that they never could effectively recover from
the shock. That act of Bheema did not do our cause much good either. It
was no less than a slander on the very concept of our ‘dharmayuddha’ —
what we had proudly proclaimed this war as.
I don’t know whether it was Duhshasana’s overconfidence or sheer
destiny that made him cross Bheema’s way on that very day! Bheema
knocked down Duhshasana’s charioteer with a short lance. Duhshasana
took up the reins and started driving the chariot himself.
 I was observing the contest from a distance. Duhshasana showed
admirable courage on that last day of his inglorious life. He drove the
chariot himself and kept shooting arrows at Bheema at the same time. One
of his arrows hit Bheema viciously and felled him. I rushed towards him
sensing urgency.
But Bheema came round quickly. He wielded his monstrous mace in air
and grimaced. He started to walk gently towards Duhshasana, completely
ignoring his incessant shooting. Duhshasana clearly saw his ruin in
Bheema’s bloodshot eyes.
Duhshasana ran short of his courage. He stopped assaulting Bheema and
started to turn his horses around in a bid to move aside from Bheema’s way.
‘Where are you fleeing, you numbskull? I am feeling very thirsty now.
Won’t you quench my thirst, brother?’
Bheema’s strange words had a shocking impact on Duhshasana. He
started to flog his horses wildly to make them race away from Bheema.
Duhshasana clearly remembered what Bheema had promised fourteen years
back to avenge Draupadi’s humiliation. Was Bheema really planning to
drink his blood? I felt a chill creeping down my spine.
Bheema heaved his mace with a frightening cry and hurled at a fleeing
Duhshasana. The enormous club landed on Duhshasana’s vehicle and
completely shattered it. Duhshasana, severely hit on the head, was flung at a
distance. He was writhing in unbearable pain, holding his head with two
hands.
Bheema grinned. He strutted towards the fallen enemy, mimicking a
dancer’s steps—with all the time in the world.
I noticed that all activities and movements in the vicinity were gradually
reducing. Bheema’s bizarre mood attracted attention of all the soldiers
fighting in that particular sector. They forgot their own fights and became
spectators of the drama just about to unfold.
Bheema reached Duhshasana who was lying on his back and placed his
left foot on Duhshasana’s throat. Then he let out a dreadful cry.
‘O Duryodhana, O sutaputra Karna, O Ashwatthama, O Shakuni, O the
brave Kauravas— come save your dear Duhshasana from my hands if you
can. Come see how I caress him!’
I saw Duryodhana, Karna and Shakuni trying to break through the crowd
to see what was happening. They stood motionless, watching the
proceedings with great horror.
Bheema first pierced Duhshasana’s chest with his sword. Then kneeling
down, he inserted his fingers into the puncture created by the stab and
ripped his chest open. Blood spurted out in gushes. Bheema cupped his
palms and filled it with the blood. Then he stood up, with blood dripping
from his cupped palms.
What he did then was absolutely abominable, I must admit. It was
certainly one of the ugliest moments of the war. Bheema took a big swig of
the blood and spouted it from his mouth, with hysteric guffaws.
‘Oho—what a drink it was! I never knew that the blood of an enemy
tastes so much better than even the best drinks in the world,’ snarled
Bheema!
Duhshasana was still alive. He was not spared the shock to watch his
own blood being drunk!
Then, Bheema did him a great favour, though inadvertently. In the
excitement, Bheema unwittingly cut off his head and freed him from further
pangs. But doing that, Bheema became sad—not for killing him, but for
killing him too early! I froze to hear what Bheema said on seeing
Duhshasana dead, ‘What more can I give you now, brother? Death has
secured you away from me !’
The sight was too disturbing, too sickening to describe. Many Kaurava
soldiers skedaddled away from the field. Some vomited, many fainted. A
soldier helped Duryodhana walk away from the spot. Duryodhana’s gait
resembled that of a sleepwalker. Karna himself sat down on his chariot
supporting his drooping head with palms of his hands. Duhshasana’s brutal
murder under his very nose did not do any good to Karna’s reputation.
But without trying to soft-pedal the gross inappropriateness of the
incident, I want to mention that Bheema did not actually drink
Duhshasana’s blood as he had vowed or posed. He only took it in his
mouth, and then spat it out. I know him very well. It was impossible for him
to gulp his cousin’s blood down his throat. My brother was not a cannibal!
He was hot-headed, reckless, stubborn—yet quite tender deep inside at the
same time. I still remember what Lord Kuber had once said of Bheema
—‘He is basically a gigantic child who just refuses to grow up. He has not
learnt to be afraid either. He has his own singular reasoning method and that
is where you need to interfere. Yudhisthira, always keep a check on him.’
 -2-
Does not it sound unbelievable that the barbaric murder of Duryodhana’s
most favourite brother was only the second most important event of that
particular day? It was so because later on the same day Karna, the sutaputra
, would also be killed by Arjuna! That day, which could have been
contemptuously remembered due to Bheema’s macabre act, actually
became famous for a remarkable archery duel between two estranged
siblings who were born to rival each other. I am sure if Vyasadeva ever
decides to write about the Kuru family’s history, he will recollect the
seventeenth day of the war with respect, not with disdain. When the sun set
to mark the end of that sensational day, Karna—the son of the sun god and
our bitterest bête noire —breathed his last to put an end to all wild Kaurava
hopes of victory. Though the war was still not over, it was virtually over
upon his death.
I still vividly remember, when we were returning to our camps after
Karna’s death amidst wild celebrations, I felt sleepy. With the biggest thorn
removed from my flesh, I felt engulfed by an inscrutable happiness
absolutely unfamiliar to me. I was just craving to jump into bed and get lost
in a pleasant sleep trancing myself away from a boisterous world full of
meaningless noises. Such a sleep had never happened to me since that ill-
fated pasha game many years ago.
Chekitana, a Yadava warrior, informed me that the much-awaited fight
had started. I was then inside our camp, nursing an injury on my left
shoulder which had been caused by Karna’s strike. I immediately got into
my chariot and instructed the driver to take me to the field in order to watch
the battle.
It was far more than a mere combat between two human beings. It was a
decisive encounter between two contrasting images of truth. No one and
nothing could have remained non-partisan to that epic duel. The entire
cosmos seemed to have ruptured into two halves revealing allegiance to the
warring heroes.
Enormous clouds laden with thunder capped the bright sun up in the sky.
The sun too slashed the clouds through its rays. Evidently, Lord Indra and
Lord Surya were bickering among themselves, supporting their respective
sons—Arjuna and Karna. It would prove to be the most influential
encounter the world had ever witnessed—less for the amazing virtuosity of
the arch-rivals than for the final solution that this conflict would offer to an
elementary human dilemma symbolised by two great men standing at
inimical antipodes, each being sure of his own share of logic.
Karna and Arjuna were hurling the deadliest of missiles at each other and
matched each other blow by blow. Arjuna had won all of their previous
duels but Karna looked ominous on that day. Shalya and Krishna both were
driving the chariots masterfully, avoiding missiles and shafts scudding at
them with sharp turns and veering motions of the vehicles.
Karna struck Arjuna by ten powerful arrows. Arjuna, in response,
invoked the terrible Brahmastra (the weapon of Lord Brahma). It caused
serious havoc in the advancing divisions of the Kaurava army.
Suddenly, the string of Arjuna’s Gandiva snapped due to excessive
plucking. Karna grabbed the opportunity with two hands. He showered
torrents of arrows at Krishna and Arjuna, completely obscuring them from
vision for some moment. The Kaurava army went berserk with ecstasy and
jubilations. I saw Shakuni punch in the air in delight believing Arjuna
already defeated!
Now Arjuna showed why he was widely accepted as the greatest archer
in the world. He strung the enormous Gandiva with deft movements of his
nimble fingers, and then launched a devastating counter-attack. Arjuna’s
arrows were incessantly leaving his bow in flocks and were pricking Karna
and his bodyguards. Soon, Karna’s almost entire support team including his
bodyguards was lying dead on the ground; the lucky few who survived ran
away like kicked dogs. But Karna, in spite of being severely struck on a
number of places on his body, was fighting tooth and nail fending off
Arjuna’s relentless salvos.
The excitement was unbelievable. The scintillating fight was reaching
exactly the height it was expected to. I was rubbing my face repeatedly to
fight tension and anxiety away. Many soldiers of our side led by Bheema
were shouting to cheer up Arjuna.
The battle was getting more desperate and more violent, though it firmly
remained committed to the codes of war. I admit now that it was a matter of
sheer honour for all of us to behold such a magnificent show that sometimes
appeared somehing other than a war, the ruthless ferocity of the belligerents
notwithstanding. But at that time, I was in no mood to enjoy it; rather I
wanted desperately to see Karna fall, by hook or by crook.
The contest was almost evenly poised, though Arjuna appeared to hold a
slender edge for quite some time after Karna had grabbed the first initiative.
Then a dreadful incident happened. On recall, I still get goose-bumps all
over my body even after so many years.
Karna picked up a serpent-shaped arrow from his quiver and shot it. The
dazzling arrow rushed towards Arjuna menacingly, breaching through the
greying sky.
Suddenly I noticed something making winding movements along the
metal shaft of the arrow though the arrow was following a steady, linear
trajectory. Then I clearly saw a ferocious looking snake hood rear above the
arrowhead and a forked tongue dangled outside its gaping mouth.
It was a real snake twining the arrow! Karna had cast a real snake at
Arjuna!
My head reeled and I fell on my flagstaff.
Gods and the guardian deities lamented loudly. Our soldiers started
beating their chests and foreheads fearing the worst. I saw Satyaki kneel
down on the ground with his head hung down. Many were too stunned to
react. I myself was so blank with horror that I forgot even to shut my eyes!
That could well have been the sure end of Arjuna, had there been no
Krishna. Once again he pulled off a coup. Krishna sprang up from the
charioteer’s seat and pressed the massive chariot down with his right leg in
order to duck the scudding serpent. The front wheels of the Kapidhwaja (the
name of Arjuna’s famous chariot) sank some length into the ground and the
horses knelt down. Everything happened in a wink of an eye. The missile
whizzed past Arjuna’s head just missing it by a whisker; only knocking off
his bejeweled, priceless coronet that fell down from his head completely
charred.
The serpent, failed in his mission, landed on the ground with a thud.
Then we heard a dreadful hissing voice, pitched high enough to rise above
the noise around.
‘Use me once more, Karna. This time I will surely kill that wicked son of
Pandu,’ the serpent conjured Karna.
Karna looked flummoxed a bit. Then he tendered a most graceful reply
making me admire him in stealth, ‘Had I known it was you in an arrow’s
garb, I would have never used the weapon. O great serpent, Karna is
capable of winning all by himself. I will never take your help even if you
can destroy Arjuna hundred times over! Please be happy and leave us
alone.’
The snake leapt up menacingly and pounced on Arjuna. I covered my
eyes out horror. Ohhhh! What an unbearably stressful day it had been for
me—starting from Bheema’s brutal treatment of Duhshasana to such
suspense! I feared my nerves might explode. There was another frightened
chorus from our soldiers. But it immediately turned into an ecstatic
celebration. Opening my eyes, I saw the loathsome serpent shredded into
several pieces. The separated body parts of the reptile were writhing on the
ground for some time before becoming still for good. Six arrows of Arjuna
had settled his case, once and for all.
But who was that snake? Why was he baying for Arjuna’s blood so
vehemently? We would later learn that he was Ashwasena, the son of
Takshaka, the great reptile. During the burning of the Khandava forest,
Arjuna had killed his mother and earned the wrath of Ashwasena, who was
particularly infamous for his crooked nature.
Meanwhile, Krishna had pulled up the chariot from the groove and the
battle resumed. Back from the dead, Arjuna became unstoppable. His
torturous strikes left Karna reeling. Karna’s helmet was badly damaged. His
breastplate was cut open by Arjuna’s missiles and hung awkwardly leaving
his upper torso completely bare. Arjuna’s shafts were piercing Karna’s
armourless body and he was soon bleeding profusely.
I could never forget how one day this Karna had asked Duhshasana with
a straight face to strip Draupadi in front of around hundred people in an
assembly. Today, Arjuna stripped Karna of his armour in front of millions
of people! Though Karna’s befitting retribution was still a long distance, I
savoured every moment of his humiliation at Arjuna’s hand.
Arjuna clearly had Karna on the ropes now. Bheema, Dhrishtadyumna
and Satyaki started a premature jubilation by blowing trumpets. I too was
tempted to visualise the much cherished moment of mine when there would
be no one called Karna standing haughty between my kingdom and myself.
But it was too early. I was too naïve to write him off so easily. Karna,
though severely wounded, showed incredible resolve and spirit. He
resurrected himself and bounced back into the contest with phenomenal
power and energy. His terrific shooting injured both Krishna and Arjuna.
Arjuna was forced to go defensive and was trying to block Karna’s assaults.
Undoubtedly, that was by far Arjuna’s toughest moment at Kurukshetra. No
one else had been able to give him the kind of fight Karna gave him.
Arjuna would later tell me that he was completely taken aback by
Karna’s sudden turnaround. It apparently caused a troubling doubt in his
mind whether Karna could at all be beaten by anyone! According to Arjuna,
it was the only time he panicked on a battlefield.
There was a blinding haze in the battlefield caused by numerous arrows
travelling to and fro, dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves and the
floundering light of that fascinating twilight. The sun was fast travelling
westwards to end the most remarkable day of the war. But unfortunately,
the two heroes were not destined to live past the day together. Only one was
to go home all smiles with the other biting the dust.
I could not stay on the field till the end to witness the breathtaking finish.
A stray arrow of Karna hit me on my left shoulder which had already been
injured by him in a fight early in the day. I felt an excruciating pain and sat
down in my chariot almost senseless. I could faintly remember that Arjuna
was trying to come towards me out of anxiety. I waved my hand to stop him
and asked him to concentrate in his fight. My charioteer took me to the
camp.
Later I would return to the battlefield only to see a beheaded Karna lying
flat on his back with numerous arrows stuck on his body—a sight I had so
ardently yearned for so long. Our victory was then just a matter of time. I
had never felt so light in my life. I embraced Arjuna. He touched my feet,
Krishna’s too. I expressed my most genuine gratitude to Krishna for
uprooting an agonising barb from my heart. It was a cruel irony that one
day we would have to rue it when the real identity of Karna would be
revealed to us.
Though I missed the last moments of Karna, I took detailed description
of the events from many—Arjuna, Krishna, Bheema, Dhrishtadyumna,
Satyaki, Shikhandi, Yudhamanyu, Uttamauja, Chekitana. How could I have
left any part of such a gripping tale unheard?
One wheel of Karna’s chariot got accidentally stuck in a deep furrow on
the ground. His vehicle got tilted on one side. Shalya, the charioteer,
repeatedly whipped the horses to pull up the chariot with all their forces,
but the wheel could not be freed.
Ostensibly, Karna had been cursed by a Brahmin and his guru Parashu
Rama on separate occasions that the wheel of his chariot would get stuck in
the ground at the most critical hour of his life and he would be unable to
recall the Brahmastra when he would need it the most.
I don’t know whether it was purely coincidental that both the curses
converged on the most decisive point of that epic fight. My understanding
of destiny is not very clear, even today. What I know now is that besides
Arjuna and Krishna, Karna was fighting two more invisible enemies—two
lethal curses* that completely ruined his chance to stage a spirited
fightback, in spite of his courageous efforts.
Shalya kept on whipping the horses like a man possessed. The horses
made frenzied efforts to free the wheel but it did not come out of the rut.
Karna himself wanted to come down and lift the wheel out of the groove
using his bare hands but Arjuna’s ceaseless arrows did not let him get down
from his vehicle.
Karna, eyes filled with despondent tears, proposed to Arjuna a brief
armistice so that he could pull his accursed wheel out of the cranny.
‘O Arjuna, please give me a small recess and allow me to free my
chariot. Can’t you for once be kind enough to give your enemy a gift as
little as only a moment? You are a noble warrior hailing from a famous
house. I expect you to fight straight, and follow the path of dharma .’
Arjuna, moved by Karna’s appeal, lowered his bow. But it was Krishna’s
time to act. He slowly stood up from his seat, with a sardonic smile on his
face. Krishna was in no mood to grant our enemies any concession. He
would not let our enemies use dharma as a subterfuge.
‘Dharma ? Did I really hear you utter something like that? I am happy
that you are at least aware that something called dharma exists somewhere!
Don’t you remember, Karna, what you said and did to Draupadi in that
assembly? When Shakuni, that fraudster, was cheating an innocent
Yudhisthira at a dice game, did not you know that something called dharma
does exist somewhere? When Duryodhana tried to poison Bheema and
wanted to burn all the Pandavas in that wax palace at Varanavata, why did
not your dharma rebuke your conscience? When you attacked Abhimanyu
from behind with a straight face and then you seven people together killed
that helpless boy—was your sense of dharma away on a sabbatical? What a
pathetic caricature of righteousness you are, Anga Raj ! Though you have at
last remembered dharma , it is just too late! We can give you only one thing
—death, that is.’
Karna was left speechless. He picked up his bow and let loose a vicious
arrow that struck Arjuna’s right hand powerfully. The blow was too painful
and it shook Arjuna. Arjuna’s head reeled, and he dropped the Gandiva
from his hand before losing consciousness—on the first of only two
occassions in his illustrious vocation as a warrior; the second being in the
fight with his own son Bavruvahana many years later.
Karna jumped down from his chariot to make a last effort to pull out the
wheel. He pulled the wheel with both his hands but it did not budge a little.
Arjuna came round quickly. The Gandiva was back in his hand once
again. Krishna observed Arjuna hesitate a bit. He reminded Arjuna of
Abhimanyu’s death in whispers to get him to action. He knew very well
what, of all other things, would excite Arjuna the most at that moment.
The mention of Abhimanyu’s name had the desired effect on Arjuna. His
hesitation was gone. He picked up from his quiver the Anjalika and let it fly
at Karna.
Karna was still pulling at the wheel. The lethal missile swooshed towards
him at a blistering velocity and beheaded him. The severed head of Karna
tumbled on the ground like the sun plummeting down over the western
horizon at the same time.
A divine hallow emitted from the fallen trunk of Karna, and got
immediately lost in the sun rays still scattered at the western sky. The son
met his father again, this time on the other side of death.

-3-
Shakuni and Duryodhana were still left. But it became clear that their good
times were gone forever. The battle of Kurukshetra was approaching
conclusion with the tide totally turned our way. Almost all Kaurava heroes
had already been neutralised. Though the residue of the Kaurava army was
still fighting valiantly, our victory was but a certainty now.
 But what was my own contribution to this war which, in many ways, was
my war? Seventeen days had passed on Kurukshetra, and I was yet to leave
any particular mark of notable bravery, courage or skill. I was always being
guarded and protected by my loyal soldiers who always stood between
danger and me. I had my moments, though. On a couple of occasions, I
defeated Duryodhana comprehensively and even injured him seriously
once. One day, I even knocked Karna unconscious, though for a very brief
period. Still, I knew I had done nothing sensational in the war so far and my
brave soldiers were winning me the war keeping me as secured as a tiny
child in his mother’s lap.
After Karna’s death at the close of the seventeenth day, Duryodhana
appointed Shalya, the king of Madra, as the next commander of their
crestfallen army.
Shalya was never our enemy, not even during the battle. He was the
maternal uncle of Nakula and Sahadeva, being the elder brother of their
Mother Madri, who had ended up being on the Kaurava side quite
unwillingly.
Shalya was a top-class warrior, equally competent in archery and mace
fighting. He was an accomplished wrestler too. But the biggest ‘problem’
with him was that he was an excellent human being and it was difficult for
us to brew real animosity against him in our minds. Despite fighting for
Duryodhana, he helped us too by demoralising and confusing Karna
deliberately. We would have been so happy to have him on my side. Only I
wished he were a little more intelligent to have correctly identified the right
side to fight on!
During our strategic meeting before the battle of the eighteenth day—
which would eventually turn out to be the final day of the war—I proposed
to fight Shalya myself. There was absolutely no doubt in anybody’s mind
that I was no match for Shalya. Even I knew that. Still I wanted to tackle
him as something inside me had told me that I would be equal to the task.
But how could I convince others?
Krishna made me happy with his suggestion. ‘I think it will be the best
option. Brother Yudhisthira is our best bet to fight Shalya.’
Everybody was all ears—just because the speaker was none but Krishna.
He himself would explain it: ‘Shalya is actually a friend. Any fight with
him is likely to drool into a friendly sparring and drag for eternity which
will do our cause no good. We need to wind it up as soon as possible. If
brother Yudhisthira fights him, Shalya will tend to become relaxed and
careless. I can clearly see a complacent Shalya giving away opportunities to
Yudhisthira. Brother Yudhisthira, you have to exploit it to the fullest. But
you have to be guarded by our best four soldiers—Arjuna, Bheema,
Dhrishtadyumna and Satyaki.’
It still gives me immense pleasure to remember how fiercely I fought that
day. My arrows and missiles were so impeccable, so destructive that the
Kaurava soldiers were rubbing their eyes in grand disbelief while fleeing
away from me like beaten rabbits.
‘Is he the same Yudhisthira?’
‘Run, run away from him! He is unstoppable today!’
‘He will leave none of us alive!’
I heard many Kaurava soldiers make such panicky comments.
Yudhisthira was being feared on a battlefield! I was jubilantly seeing my
arrows pierce, stab, perforate and behead thousands of people. I never knew
killing could be so exciting and addictive!
My fight with Shalya did not last long though I was in serious trouble at
a point of time. I had started well by killing Shalya’s charioteer and horses.
Ashwatthama took him away in his own chariot. After some time, Shalya
returned on a new chariot and killed four horses of my chariot. He rained
flocks of well-aimed arrows on me. His arrows were spiking me painfully.
At this difficult moment, I got excellent support from Bheema. Bheema
shattered his chariot once again and killed his charioteer and horses.
Bheema also damaged his armour.
Shalya committed a great mistake then. It would be his last mistake. He
rushed towards me with a sword and shield, instead of fighting me from a
distance with bow and arrows. He would have had a better chance of
defeating me by fighting away from me as he was a much better archer. He
perhaps forgot that nobody on this planet could throw a javelin better than
me and particularly from a shorter distance I could use it to an absolutely
lethal effect. I remembered what Krishna had predicted: ‘Shalya would give
away chances.’
Shalya was running breakneck towards me with the enormous sword
threateningly uplifted. My soldiers were shouting and urging me to do
something quickly.
 I gripped the middle of my shakti (a lance or javelin) firmly and felt a
strange calmness inside me that kept all my nerves in perfect order. I just
allowed him to come closer so that the strike of my lance would become
mortal and fixed my eyes on the gaping chink on his breastplate that
Bheema had caused.
Shalya came closer inside a perfect striking range. I lifted my right hand
holding the shakti tightly. I aimed at the cavern on Shalya’s cuirass and
hurled the lance with all my strength.
The javelin swooped on Shalya like a meteor and pierced his chest
exactly through that chink in his armour. A strapping and massively built
Shalya was knocked down like a thunderstruck mountain peak. My throw
was so monstrously powerful that the lance, after going through his body,
pinned him to the ground. I would later come to know that in order to take
away Shalya’s body for his funeral, the spear had to be severed away from
the ground by a saw!
That was my biggest military achievement. Killing an accomplished
warrior like Shalya was no mean achievement for anybody, let alone me.
But side by side, I also felt sad. We all loved and respected him. I felt
particularly guilty to Nakula and Sahadeva as Shalya was their doting
maternal uncle. But my guilt feeling was gone when the twins rushed to
congratulate me though tears glistened in their eyes. I embraced those two
pets of mine with my two hands with an unspoken apology.
Shalya was done before noon. His fall left the Kauravas in complete
disarray. Their formation was totally undone; almost all their major warriors
were lying lifeless on the ground. Most importantly, their morale was
completely destroyed. The writing on the wall was pretty clear; a
devastating defeat of the Kaurava army becoming just a matter of time.
Though the likes of Ashwatthama and Kripacharya were still alive, they
lacked that charisma and inspiring leadership quality to revive a broken-
spirited army. Only Duryodhana was making some efforts to regroup his
soldiers. He killed Chekitana, the Yadava hero, in a violent single combat.
For the first time, he was seen leading his army from the front but it was far
too late and his capabilities were far too limited to make any serious impact.
We were desperately looking for that loathsome import from Gandhara
who had so religiously plotted, scripted and orchestrated the persecution we
had had to suffer for a large share of our lives! Shakuni—that mountain rat
—had so far been hiding successfully behind many great warriors. Now,
with all of them down, he stood exposed.
Interestingly, we five brothers did not have to discuss this among
ourselves. Still all five pairs of eyes were searching for Shakuni
simultaneously, on their own.
Sahadeva had that prized catch, finally. Surprisingly, Shakuni did not try
to run away anymore. Rather, he calmly faced Sahadeva. Shakuni was
looking extremely tired. It seemed that he was perhaps waiting to get free
from a bitter life that had perhaps fatigued even himself.
But Sahadeva was not interested to grant him his desired death so easily!
Right under his nose, Sahadeva beheaded his son Ulooka giving him the
taste of a grievous personal loss before his own death.
That nauseating smirk, which had become the most defining feature of
Shakuni’s face, vanished for good. He wept bitterly embracing Ulooka’s
dead body. Then he got up and attacked Sahadeva with a spear. But Shakuni
was almost blinded by his own tears. Sahadeva easily broke his spear and
threw a lance at him with a lightening swiftness. The lance made Shakuni’s
body free from the weight of his head that had ceaselessly nursed evil
thoughts and beliefs.
While Shakuni was being killed at one remote corner of the battlefield,
my soldiers at other parts of Kurukshetra were clinically annihilating the
remnants of Duryodhana’s army. Dhrishtadyumna killed the Shalwa king
who was becoming dangerous to our army. By the noon of the eighteenth
day, our victory was complete.
Hastinapura was mine again. So was Indraprastha too. But for some
priceless years and lives of many near and dear ones, everything we had
lost was back to us.
Duryodhana lost all his brothers, army, kingdom, pride—everything—
only inside these eighteen mad days.
My victorious army—still twenty thousand strong including infantry,
chariot warriors and elephant riders—started a reckless, uninhibited and
free-spirited celebration on that blood-soaked terrain of Kurukshetra which
was littered with innumerable dead bodies of human beings, horses and
elephants. They danced with glee, drank kanjika , somrasa and madhvika ,
blew trumpets and thanked gods for allowing them to survive the most
horrifying battle the world had ever witnessed.
 But actually we had still not won the war as Duryodhana was still alive.
We needed Duryodhana’s death badly as the simmering fire in our hearts
was only to be doused with the sprinkles of his blood, and nothing else….

-4-
‘Suyodhana, get up from the depth of the lake and fight. Aren’t you
ashamed of hiding under water like a rank coward, after causing death of all
your brothers and relatives! Wonderful! Where are your pride and conceit
gone now, you the ex-king of Hastinapura? You have been such a nasty
stain on humanity! Come out, the worst blunder of your parents! But don’t
be afraid, cousin. I am still generous enough to grant you anything you beg
for, save only your life!’
Our spies had informed us that Duryodhana was hiding under Lake
Dwaipayana, just beside Kurukshetra. Duryodhana knew the art of aquatic
breathing and was quite safe under water, away from our reach. Krishna had
advised me to launch such a scathing verbal assault only to get Duryodhana
out of his hideout.
My language was so venomous, so provocative that it almost surprised
me. My vitriolic words sounded more like Bheema’s than my own. I had
never spoken so ruthlessly to anyone.
But Duryodhana did not come out. His reply bellowed from the depth of
the lake instead, ‘Yudhisthira, no doubt it is your time for some tongue
wagging. I am not afraid, but only sad, as you have tricked away everything
from me. I am still able to defeat you people all by myself, trust me. But I
want salvation from this life. I am so full today that nothing of this world
attracts me anymore. Moreover, I do not have anyone left today with whom
I can enjoy the pleasures of this world. I will go to the forest wearing
deerskins, freeing myself from the mind-blowing opulence I have had
enough of. You wanted the kingdom, no? Have it. Reign over the land,
which has ceased to interest me any more.’
I heard Bheema grunt and Arjuna whisper something, some profanity
perhaps, which was not clearly audible to me. The twins flashed sarcastic
smiles.
 I looked at Krishna’s face. He looked serious. There were no smiles, no
anger, no sarcasm, and no familiar expressions on his face.
I understood that Duryodhana had to be dealt with tact.
Duryodhana’s reply, though well worded, cut into my flesh rather
painfully. It made things much easier for me to unleash my next round of
diatribe. ‘Your harangue sounds as distasteful as trilling screams of a
carrion bird! It seems as if you are magnanimously abdicating your property
to us! You were not even ready one day to give us only five villages. Can
you remember what you said? “The Pandavas will get from me not even a
needle-point of earth without war!” And today, you hand me over the entire
world! Who are you to give everything to us? Do you own anything now?
Scoundrel, today we will stub out your obnoxious life! Get up!’
I was sure that this would be enough for my cousin. Just as I expected,
Duryodhana could not withstand the insult any further. That rascal was too
sensitive to digest affronts.
There was suddenly a violent stir in the placid water of the lake.
Duryodhana rose up to the surface with his enormous iron mace, excuisitely
encrusted with gold.
The Panchala soldiers applauded his courage that almost bordered on
eccentricity at that moment. Duryodhana mistook the appreciation for jeer
and angrily thrust the pointed spike on the top of his mace deep into the
ground. He then raised his heavy mace and bravely challenged us, ‘Here I
take up my mace. How do you plan to fight me, you pack of cowards? One
by one, or all of you will like to pounce on me together? If you are clever,
you will do the latter.’
The arrogance of that fool astonished me. Did he really mean it, or he
just wanted to rediscover his shattered self-esteem through those plucky
words? Whatever be it, now I would not concede even an inch even it came
down to only a war of words.
‘Don’t you quake with fear, cousin. We are certainly not going to do the
latter to you. You people fight that way, not us. You had no qualms about
swarming on a tiny boy and killing him, being unable to contain him in a
fair fight. But that was quite expected from vermins like you. Leave it. Here
are armours, helmets, guards, breastplates, all sorts of weapons and
equipments. Choose your weapon. But hurry up. We don’t want to waste
much time talking to a mite like you.’
 My words soothed my ears. I observed Krishna and my brothers suppress
a smile which was a clear indication of their admiration for my appropriate
meanness. It was quite a revelation!
Duryodhana showed his mace and told us that it would be his weapon in
the last battle. Then he wore a good armour, put on a helmet and prepared
for the last fight. With a casual arrogance, he asked who was going to be his
opponent.
Then I gave an idiotic concession to Duryodhana which could have
invited serious trouble for us and helped him regain the kingdom single-
handedly.
‘Not only weapon, you can choose your opponent also. You will have to
fight with any one of us. I swear, if you can beat me or any one of my
brothers—I repeat—any one, Hastinapura is yours again!’
Krishna was furious. He shook his head with hopeless disgust and almost
shouted at me, ‘No! No! I see you people are just not meant for kingship! I
have clearly understood it now. Which good sense did prompt you to offer
such a great proposal to that scoundrel, brother Yudhisthira? If he selects
you or any of your brothers other than Bheema, what will happen? Even
Bheema would find it extremely difficult to beat him, I tell you. Though he
is more powerful, Duryodhana is much superior in skill and skill is always
better than power. And mind you, Duryodhana does not have anything to
lose now; he will fight his heart out.’
Then Krishna reminded us what Shukracharya, the venerable preceptor
of Asuras , had once famously said, ‘When a defeated enemy fights back,
beware of him; for he has nothing to lose and does not mind putting his life
on stake.’
Duryodhana behaved gracefully for the first time at his final hour. He
was in no mood to accept any kindness from his opponent. With a gallant
arrogance, he returned the favour and I got away with my stupid
commitment, thanks to him.
‘Send any body with a mace—any body. But send only the one who is in
some hurry to die! If there are many such, send them one after another. First
come, first served! I will kill all of you one by one.’
The sigh of relief from Krishna was audible enough. Duryodhana’s
conceit squandered the opportunity of his life!
 How crooked this world is! Why can’t this dear planet of ours allow us
any room for vanity, esteem and integrity? When I stubbornly clung on to
my righteousness, I lost my kingdom. I won it back by dupery and deceit.
Duryodhana’s wicked machinations had taken him to the top of the world.
But when he behaved like an upright, honourable fighter; his last ray of
hope was quenched. Were we some wrong people at a wrong place at a
wrong time? Or, contrarily, were we exactly what our very time needed us
to be—some qualmless earthlings recklessly stampeding for survival with
no strings attached?
Bheema’s most cherished moment had come. He ostentatiously reminded
us how Duryodhana had showed his bare thigh to our queen! ‘Aha, look at
his lusty thigh resembling the trunk of a banana tree! He was a little too
proud of it. Today I am going to crush his pride before wrenching out all air
from his lungs!’
Meanwhile, Balarama arrived at the spot after completing a long
pilgrimage. He had taught Bheema and Duryodhana the art of mace-
fighting. Balrama’s sudden arrival galvanised both of them alike. On
Balarama’s advice, we all came to Samanta Panchak where the final fight
would be held between his two disciples.
Duryodhana looked diminutive in comparison to Bheema and evidently
was not even half as strong as Bheema was. But he made up for his physical
disadvantage with agility and craft. His skill was outstanding—much better
than Bheema’s. Coupled with his clear technical superiority was the
undaunted desperation arising from the factuality that he had nothing to
lose. What a fight he gave Bheema, putting up a mesmerising display of his
mastery with mace!
Right at the beginning, a couple of Bheema’s strikes unsettled
Duryodhana. One even floored him amidst thundering cheers of the
Panchalas. But soon, we noticed that Bheema was hitting the air all around
him, instead of his opponent. A nimble-footed Duryodhana was circling
around Bheema and viciously striking him with precise, impeccable timing.
When Bheema counter-attacked, Duryodhana was out of his reach using his
mercurial footwork and amazing body feints!
Duryodhana felled Bheema once. Bheema got up immediately and swung
his mace frighteningly. Duryodhana stepped aside and foiled his attempt.
Bheema charged again and this time managed to strike on the left hand of
Duryodhana. Duryodhana knelt down, pressing the wounded left hand with
his right.
Bheema was seeing red. His breathing sounded like a fuming serpent. He
went all out to land a crushing blow to Duryodhana with his mace held high
with his two hands. Duryodhana spun like a top in a wink of an eye and
dealt a severe blow on Bheema’s chest. Bheema’s breastplate was shattered
and he sat down on the ground on his prat.
The fight was not promising well for us. Duryodhana was clearly getting
the better of our Bheema.
‘Remind Bheema of his promise now,’ a grim Krishna said to Arjuna.
Obviously he meant the vow of breaking Duryodhana’s thigh.
Arjuna slapped his right thigh quite ostentatiously feigning an
encouragement for Bheema and actually intending to put the message
across. Bheema got the hint.
Bheema, who had already earned the reputation for keeping his grotesque
promises with perfection, succeeded this time too. Though hitting below
waist is strictly prohibited in a mace duel at any level, Bheema struck
Duryodhana’s left thigh—the one he had offered to Draupadi to sit on—
with a demonic force and crushed it to a pliable structure of mashed flesh,
blood and crumbled bones making it unable to carry even the weight of an
ant! Bheema did not spare his other thigh either and pestled it too with
severe pounding. Then Bheema trampled his head under his left foot.
Nobody present there could keep his eyes open at that moment—I am sure!
Bheema had taken a wise oath for once, I must say! He could not have
won the battle that day had he fought straight. His old pledge to crush
Duryodhana’s thigh supplied him with an ample justification for fighting
unfair.
Balarama never pardoned Bheema. His love for Duryodhana was well-
known. In fact, Balarama went berserk with anger and would have surely
killed Bheema with his plough had Krishna not intervened just in time. But
he could not stay there any longer and left the place in a huff, utterly
disgusted.
Duryodhana did not die instantly. It was around twilight when he fell. He
would survive the entire night in unimaginable pain. I still remember how
Duryodhana was spewing profanities along with blood mixed vomits;
Krishna being the prime target of his affronts. Duryodhana lambasted him
for leading us to an ‘unrighteous’ victory made possible by unfair means.
His expletives seemed to be stabbing us on our backs while we were
walking away triumphantly leaving him behind in the clutches of death.
He would die happy the next morning, after hearing from Ashwatthama
the ‘good news’ that he (Ashwatthama) had clinically wiped out our sons,
relatives and all soldiers during a raid at our camps in that night.
I still find it difficult to describe exactly how I felt while Duryodhana
fell. Strangely, there was no discernible joy, or sorrow in my mind at that
time. I only felt beseiged by a deadly fatigue.
I never believed that Duryodhana could have been painted in any other
colour than black. I don’t hate him any less now. But today I realise that it
was just not possible for him to be anything other than a villain.
Duryodhana had been ordained to become my counter-ego in order to
make the dharmayuddha happen. It was just not possible for him to hand
over the kingdom—which he believed as his father’s—to his cousins.
Nothing could have been more difficult for a youngster to accept that his
father, whom he knew as the king, was no more than a stop-gap regent of
the empire and he had no rights to the throne just because he (Duryodhana)
was beaten by me in the race to heirship being one year junior! The crisis he
had to go through was terrible.
Though conceived earlier, Duryodhana ended up being one year younger
because of his mother Gandhari’s unusually long pregnancy. When Kunti
gave birth to me, Gandhari was still pregnant and it took her another full
year to bring Duryodhana to earth making his claim to the throne
perpetually inferior to mine. Destiny was not fair on him, I must say.
During one casual discussion with Krishna on these issues, Krishna made
a comment that still rings in my ears. ‘Brother Yudhisthira, everybody
knows Duryodhana was bad. But very few know how unhappy he was.’

* The first curse was given by his guru Parashu Rama when he discovered that Karna had cheated
him by presenting himself as a Brahmin as Parashu Rama only taught Brahmins. According to the
curse, Karna would forget about his important weapons during the most crucial fight in his life. The
second curse was from a Brahmin, whose cow was inadvertently killed by Karna. Per that curse,
Karna’s chariot wheel was to get stuck in the ground during the most decisive moment of a duel.
 18
The Victor

-1-
‘

B
heema…where is my Bheema?’ Dhritarashtra asked rather
impatiently.
Instead of waiting for our reply, the blind man was hovering in air
to find out Bheema. The urgency in his gestures seemed ominous.
What strange psychological quirk made that poor old man so eager to meet
our Bheema who had killed his hundred sons, one by one, with clinical
cruelty?
We had come to meet Dhritarashtra right after the conclusion of the war.
We had been waiting outside Dhritarashtra’s private chamber at a resort
away from Hastinapura. He was taking time to come out. I was feeling
tense. Gradually, my tension deteriorated into a crippling nervousness. I
was almost quivering at the thought of facing that old, blind, broken man! A
monstrous burden of guilt was crushing me at that moment notwithstanding
the painful reality that his sons did not deserve a lighter punishment. I had
actually started despising myself as a remorseless fratricide who had
mowed down his own kins to become the king.
We heard some footsteps. I identified the tottering, unsure gait of
Dhritarashtra from the sound of the footsteps. Someone else was coming
with him too—probably his attendant.
Every single moment seemed to be an eternity. All my courage had
drained away. Though it was the end of Agrahayan , I found myself wet
with sweat.
 He arrived, finally. He was generally a towering, robust man with
incredible strength, in spite of being so old. But I found him bent forward.
The attendant was almost carrying him. His ramshackle face was capable of
melting even a heart of stone.
I lunged forward to touch his feet with a sudden spurt of tears. But
Dhritarashtra did not seem to care much for what I had to say. He appeared
quite indifferent and made a casual gesture. I understood that the poor man
was trying his best with great difficulty to look forgiving.
But surprisingly, he appeared interested to meet only Bheema. Though it
surprised us a bit, we hardly suspected any baleful possibility. But Krishna
was sharp enough to sense the devilish design of Dhritarashtra.
Bheema, in the meantime, had taken a step forward towards Dhritarashtra
little hesitantly. Krishna’s outstretched arm suddenly touched Bheema’s
shoulder. Bheema turned back. Krishna forbade him to go close to
Dhritarashtra. Only then, could I smell that the old man might be hatching
an infernal plot in his crooked mind.
‘Come Bheema…where are you? I am waiting, my son!’
Dhritarashtra’s impatience was beginning to expose his intentions. Was
the old man trying to avenge Duryodhana’s death? In front him was
standing the man who had killed his one hundred sons with unthinkable
brutality. No way could Dhritarashtra have pardoned Bheema. But how
could that dilapidated, blind man harm our Bheema?
Instead of him, Krishna shoved forward an iron statue of Bheema.
Duryodhana had had that statue prepared in order to perfect his mace-
fighting skills on it.
As Krishna put it forward to Dhritarashtra, he hugged the idol with a
menacing passion.
We all were aware of Dhritarastra’s diabolical physical strength. He
hugged the iron idol tightly and pressed it so hard that it was shattered into
smithereens with a cracking sound. Imagine the strength of the old man!
While Duryodhana’s regular assaults had not been able to dent the iron
statue much, Dhritarashtra crushed it with a single embrace.
We five brothers cried out of shock. The terrible hatred the old man bore
us, especially Bheema, spilled all over the place like vomit. That iron idol
saved Bheema’s life. I looked at Bheema and saw fear in his eyes! That was
no less astonishing than Dhritrashtra’s outrageous act. That somebody could
scare Bheema was but a revelation!
Meanwhile, Dhritarashtra had fallen on the ground with blood frothing in
his mouth. Breaking an iron statue was not easy even for him. He thought
he had killed the real Bheema and became repentant now. He started
lamenting Bheema’s ‘death’ and cursing himself. That pathetic man always
swung between contrasting extremes and brought himself to this most
unfortunate moment of his life when the air around him was filled with
black smokes and ashes spewed out from pyres of his sons.
Krishna gave him a mild rebuff, gently reminding him of the actions of
his sons. Krishna carefully mixed the rebuke with appropriate softness so
that it did not hurt the devastated man any further. The old man accepted
everything Krishna said. He had to rather; as he himself knew how wrong
he and his sons had been. Dhritarashtra forgave all of us making me feel
much lighter.
But no one knew how deep my own hatred for him was. Dhritarashtra
was the only person I always pretended to respect despite my acute inward
dislike for him. I began to despise him right from the moment he asked us
to settle at Khandavaprastha. Sitting on the throne that actually was my
father Pandu’s, the shameless Dhritarashtra had only that place in the entire
Hastinapura to accommodate us! The moment that uncle of ours had blurted
out, ‘Have we won her, have we really won her?’ with a lewd grin baring all
his jagged teeth as Shakuni’s dice won them Draupadi, I learnt that this man
owed me hatred and nothing but hatred.
But I managed to keep it a secret. Everybody believed that only Bheema
could never pardon Dhritarashtra. That was not true. None of us could ever
pardon him, to be precise. But we always refrained from demonstrating our
hatred for Dhritarashtra because that would have been too ruthless, too
sacrilegeous an assault on the noble institution of the Kuru family and also
on our late father’s memory. Pandu loved Dhritarashtra very much, which
even Dhritarashtra would mention quite often. His sporadic moments of
sanity helped us behave well with him, but it would be rather euphemistic
to state that our uncle was never a great favourite of ours.

-2-
That certainly was not the case with Gandhari.
I always knew that facing a bereaved Gandhari was going to be much
more difficult. That extraordinary lady could have easily wielded authority
from behind a scatterbrained Dhritarashtra but she held herself back from
being a factor. Had she not, the world around us now could have been a
different, happier place. She never spoke a word wrong or thought anything
wrong. Her wisdom and personality were proverbial. I don’t know why a
woman of her substance chose to limit herself only into a perfect wife—to
Dhritarashtra at that! He often appeared like a caricature in front of her!
Even Duryodhana used to measure his words and actions when she was
around. It surprised me no end that even Gandhari could not stop her sons
from being what they were. Even more astonishing was that except Vikarna
and to a lesser extent Vivimsati, none of her sons inherited anything from
her.
She was so much sure of her sons’ estrangement from dharma that not
for a single moment could she give her sons her blessings. The complex
connotations of dharma never confused her. Poor Duryodhana had to fight
the entire war without his mother’s blessings! That stupid lout never knew
that he had always been poorer than even a penniless pauper, for he never
had even his own mother’s blissful hand on the top of his crown.
Before facing her, I had prepared myself that whatever punishment she
had in store for us must be exactly equal to what we deserved. Gandhari
could never be wrong.
She was breathing fire and was quaking with anger—not because we had
murdered her sons, but because we had fought with guiles. She was still
unable to get over from the horror of Duhshasana’s gruesome death and
could not accept Bheema’s unscrupulous pelvic hitting to kill Duryodhana.
Though the wise lady had long known that we would kill her sons, she had
expected us to show respect to enemies and spare at least Vikarna who was
friendly to us going against Duryodhana’s line.
While I bent down to touch her feet, my big toe was visible to her from
beneath the piece of cloth covering her eyes. Gandhari used to screen her
vision with a strip of cloth, in an attempt to share the darkness her blind
husband had to dwell in. Nobody in Hastinapura had ever seen her eyes.
Her fervent glance, blazing hot with scorn, burnt my nail down. I had to
jerk my leg away as if it was singed by a sudden touch of fire.
 I received so many wounds on my body during the war but not even a
single scar stays with me now. But my scorched nail never got healed.
Symbolic, was it?
I had once heard from Shakuni that Gandhari’s eyes were almost
rectangular, slightly bent upwards, hazel and indescribably beautiful.
Earlier, I had had a curiosity to see her eyes. Today, I thanked my stars that
I was spared the test of standing guilty in front of those eyes!
But we feared too much. Gandhari’s devastating fury was not to be spent
on lightweights that we were. The piece of cloth only covered her eyes, not
her wisdom. Unlike her husband, she knew who to blame—Krishna it was!
The great armageddon had annihilated the evil alright but that was not
the ultimate verdict. The massacre was not to spare anybody associated
with it regardless of his allegiance. There could be no absolute victory even
in a dharmayuddha because victory is only a mirror image of defeat. At the
end of the day it is just an image—a perception of human mind, not the
absolute reality. A war cannot leave anybody victorious; it can only leave
some survivors. Defeat strikes survivors too in different forms and in
different times. All participants of a war are but losers.
Krishna was in no mood to keep himself removed from the effects of the
apocalypse. He had already heard firm footsteps of his own doom and made
no efforts to resist the inevitable. Had he been an ordinary mortal like us,
Krishna might have tried to justify himself or at least evade responsibility.
But he was god. He was able to face a bereaved, fulminating mother head-
on with a seraphic elegance.
Gandhari’s voice, usually as sweet as tunes of a flute, sounded strikingly
unfamiliar, ‘Do you see what I do with the eyes of my soul, Krishna? Have
you ever seen so many women together in white robes? Do you hear how
women are lamenting all around? Why Krishna, why all these? How could
not you stop this carnage? You were capable, Krishna—I know. What for
did you ignore the doom that had long been looming over us? I tell you
Krishna, you too won’t be spared! The same ruination would catch up with
your famous Yadu dynasty one day too—I swear! Those graceful women of
your great family will lose their men and children one day just like our
women have lost theirs today! And you, Krishna! You yourself will die a
painful death like a lesser mortal uncared and unattended, I tell you!’
 The last words struck us cold! We cried out in horror. How could she
have said those things to our Krishna? Was she in her right senses? Did not
she know why and how this devastating moment was reached? Did she not
know how sincerely had Krishna tried to find an amicable solution? Did not
she know how wrong her own sons had been?
But Krishna was unperturbed. His typical smile was uninterrupted. His
usual verve was intact. But that did not mean that he was taking it easy. On
the contrary, he received Gandhari’s angry barbs with due seriousness and
respect, ‘You have mouthed exactly what is destined, Mother Gandhari!
Your words will come true after thirty-six years, to be precise. The great
Yadavas will start killing each other in a senseless orgy. The survivors will
all be killed by me. Balarama and I will also have to take the call of the
time and breathe our last, just moments after the great perish of our entire
race. And the city we are so proud of—Dwarka—will be devoured by the
sea.’
Gandhari burst into tears with palms screening her mouth. But it was too
late. Her words had already slithered out of her lips. Krishna stepped
forward and consoled her, taking her palms into his.
As the sun reached far west, the jungle trees were casting lengthening
shadow over us perhaps symbolising the paralysing gloom that was
gradually descending in our hearts. Arjuna embraced Krishna in a tight
embrace and started weeping fitfully. Bheema grasped Krishna’s one hand
so tightly as if Krishna would run away from us immediately. The twins
were standing behind me; I could not see what they were doing but could
hear sobs and snuffles.
I myself was standing like a statue. I could not imagine a world without
Krishna. I still remember that at that moment, all colours seemed to be
draining away from the world around me.

-3-
Preparations for my coronation started in Hastinapura. The city was trying
again to rise from the ashes and wake up to a better tomorrow.
Duryodhana was not a bad king, though never a popular one. I was
always the people’s favourite. I observed a spontaneous happiness all
around in the city and the outskirts as well. People, with eyes still moist
from tears of anguish, were singing, dancing and reveling in joy. Local
bards were singing ballads depicting how we returned home after winning a
glorious battle. Blessings from all quarters were showering in on us. The
climate too was excellent in perfect harmony with the upbeat mood of the
people. Even Dhritarashtra and Gandhari accepted the harsh reality and
tried to give us their best wishes as genuinely as they could. All negative
things like bitterness, fear, animosity, malice, hatred, insecurity were parts
of a nightmarish past. Grief did still hang in the air, but it was fast diluting.
The morning at the end of an excruciating night was just too pleasant to
believe.
Nevertheless, my heart was filled to the brim with remorse. Perhaps I
was the only person in the entire kingdom who was banished from this
happiness. I could not help likening myself to a monster who butchered his
own kins and relatives to become a king. In my every dream, I was seeing
many bloody faces accusing me of my mindless cruelty. I had subdued my
adversaries outside, but deep inside my soul, my very own demons were
getting the better of me. I was gradually slipping into an acute melancholia.
Draupadi, my brothers, Krishna, Kunti—everybody became worried about
the state of my mental health.
Often I used to hear footsteps behind me. Whenever I turned back, I
would find no one around. I would very frequently hear cracking,
adolescent voices of Abhimanyu and Pratibindhya, who used to ask me
about my well-being with disconcerting inquisitiveness. I told others about
this but nobody believed me. One creepy afternoon, I saw our five sons in
military attires rush into the palace giggling childishly as if they were
returning from playgrounds! Only, they were smeared with blood, not dust.
I had goose-bumps. Arjuna was standing beside me on the roof of our
palace. He saw nothing. I showed him how those puckish boys were
playing pranks on each other right in front of the gigantic main gate but still
Arjuna could not see them. More surprising was that instead of trying to see
them, he pulled me gently into my bedroom and guided me to my bed. I
could not understand what was happening with me! I could have sworn I
saw them—as clearly as I saw my palm. Was I seeing things?
Nobody would believe me. How were those dead people reappearing
before me or calling me? Were they phantoms, or was it a delusion of the
deranged mind? Why was it repeatedly happening to me only? I even
stopped drinking madhvika because of its deep red colour that would
remind me of blood! Every now and then, I used to feel like crying. I could
not help holding myself responsible for the holocaust.
I met one strange monk just before my coronation. He had apparently
come to Hastinapura for mendicancy. That monk was extremely critical of
me. I still remember his scathing words, ‘Yudhisthira, you are a king any
kingdom will loathe to have! You are a dumb killer who had no care and
concern for the sanctity of human relationships. Shame on you! All the
Brahmins present here feel the same way and they all are cursing you. You
have no right to live. You should die immediately.’
At that mental condition, these words sounded unbearable. I fell to the
feet of the Brahmin sages who had assembled there and asked them to kill
me. The Brahmins held me and helped me stand up on my feet. One of
them told me that the foul-mouthed monk was actually a demon called
Charbaka, a bosom friend of Duryodhana. They reassured me that there was
not an iota of truth in what he had just said and it was just a ploy to harm
me.
‘King Yudhisthira, don’t let yourself be fooled by that monster. We have
never thought ill of you. He’s come here to harm you. Don’t be upset. We
will teach him a lesson here and now,’ said the revered sages. Then they
caste scornful stares at Charbaka and shouted curses in unison. Their
spitfire glances ignited a terrible fire around Charbaka and it burnt him
down to a huge pile of cinders in no time. I had heard about the devastating
power of a true Brahmin which I witnessed now with awe.
But I needed serious counselling. Krishna took me to Pitamaha who was
still lying on the bed of arrows and waiting for his end. Bheeshma paid off
his last debts to Hastinapura by helping me recover from that shambolic
mental condition through some brilliant lectures. With some hardship, I
finally started to realise how the catastrophic devastation paved the way for
a new beginning. It may sound little clichéd today but not many know
better than me what a new beginning exactly means, with the haunting
memory of a ruined heritage looming over it.
Even Maharshi Vyasadeva became anxious about my mental well-being.
He said, ‘Yudhisthira, if you really want to get over your incorrigible
sorrow, perform the noble Ashwamedha ritual as atonement and get rid of
your feeling of guilt.’
Vyasadeva turned me on. The idea of performing the great Ashwamedha
ritual brought life back in me. The legendary King Bharata—my great
ancestor after whom this part of Jambudwipa has been named
‘Bharatavarsha’—had performed this ritual ages ago. I heard that Lord
Rama, the noble king of Ayodhya, too had performed the Ashwamedha in
the Satya yuga .
Krishna too endorsed the idea enthusiastically. My spirits started to soar
again. Silently began my transformation from a repentant, sorrowful
survivor to an epoch-making emperor. My brothers started beaming again.
But the Ashwamedha yajna (ritual) was an enormous project. The entire
yearly budget of any small state could go into performing this single ritual.
The great war had impoverished Hastinapura’s exchequer. I was moreover
planning to provide a one-time relief to the bereaved families of the lowest-
ranked foot soldiers who had died fighting, regardless of their allegiance.
This was to put great stress on the economy. In order to win over allies,
Duryodhana had liberally offered financial baits to smaller kingdoms
leaving the economy of Hastinapura in a complete mess. The tragedy with
Hastinapura was that Duryodhana, who had indeed some qualities of
becoming a successful ruler, had no serious intention to rule. He had wanted
to become the king for the power and authority—and more importantly, to
get a sadistic pleasure by depriving us of the things that were ours.
How could we fund the Ashwamedha yajna ? Vyasa too had no ready
solution.
‘Have you heard of King Marutta?’ Vyasa seemed to have found a way
out.
I had not.
‘Thousands of years ago, Marutta was born in the noble line of Ikshvaku
the great. He appeased Lord Shiva to get hold of the vast reserve of gold
ores surrounding the Munjban mountain. With the help of that gold,
Marutta performed a great ritual on top of Mount Meru in the Himalayas.
You can still find the gold there. That ocean of wealth will not only help
you perform the yajna , but also will it revamp the economy.’
We started preparations for collecting the booty. But Krishna would not
accompany us as he was feeling homesick. He had been away from Dwarka
for a pretty long time and was missing his parents very much.
Seeing him off was always very difficult for us. The only consolation
was that he would return to us shortly at the time of the Ashwamedha yajna
.
We had a serious job at our hands. We came back to Hastinapura and
organised a large-scale expedition to find and collect the wealth of Marutta.
It was laid buried around Mount Meru. Our troops reached the spot with a
large team of diggers. I offered prayers to Lord Shiva before touching the
wealth. Excavations were carried out around the peak and it was found to
be a treasure trove. Not only raw gold, there were countless numbers of
artefacts, utensils, decorative pieces, containers, cases—all made of pure
gold. It seemed that the fortune of a war-torn Aryavarta was lying in front
of us, just waiting to be taken to restore the prosperity of by-gone days.
After paying due obeisance to Lord Kuber—the god of wealth—we dug out
and collected all of those priceless items and took them home.
Finally, I found the means to finance my Dharmarajya , putting some
ghoulish memories to complete rest—once and for all.

-4-
The Ashwamedha yajna , like the Rajasuya, was a ritual to demonstrate a
sovereign king’s unquestionable supremacy in the Aryavarta and outside.
But unlike the Rajasuya, it had an explicit annexationist intent by
establishing undisputed military superiority. As per the ritual, a well-bred,
pedigree horse was let loose without any rider. The horse would be
followed by an army. The kingdom where the horse entered was presented
with two options—either surrender to the owner of the horse or fight the
army. It was a clear challenge thrown by the mightiest to secure
subservience and taxes. Strangely, the victorious horse, on return after
successful campaign, was then slaughtered and sacrificed!
Clearly, I could now afford to perform the ritual. It was decided that the
ritual was to be performed under the priesthood of Vyasa, Paila and
Yajnabalkya—three august sages. On an auspicious moment, the horse was
set free, followed by a massive army led by Arjuna.
 Arjuna travelled across the whole country. He had to defeat Trigarta,
Pragjyotisha, Sindhu, Manipur, Magadha, the eastern kingdoms like Banga
and Pundra, Koshala, Chedi, the Dravidas and Mahishya at the south, the
Kiratas, the entire western coast, Gandhara. In Manipur, he had a fight with
his own son Bavruvahana (son of Arjuna and Chitrangada). It was initially a
courteous fight and perhaps Arjuna had taken his son too lightly. Strangely,
Bavruvahana defeated him. However, the father and son reunited and
Bavruvahana conceded submission. Arjuna’s victorious campaign brought
the entire Bharatavarsha under my command directly or indirectly. I became
the undisputed sovereign of the entire Bharatavarsha.
Arjuna and his triumphant army returned in the month of Magh . Krishna
and Balarama too returned to Hastinapura from Dwarka to attend the
ceremony. There were no signs of depression in me now.
The ritual was performed with spectacular success.
When the rites were being performed, Draupadi and I were sitting
together on one side of the sacred pulpit. I stealthily looked at her from the
corner of my eyes. She was also looking at me from the corner of her eyes
at the same time! Our eyes met for a moment. Though she had to wear a
formal expression, I knew how happy she was. We had to hold each other’s
hands during some offerings. Beyond notice of others, Draupadi was gently
pressing my palms to convey her delight. The touch still stays put on my
palms.
My Ashwamedha yajna was a colossal success—in all respects.
 19
The Gift

-1-

D
hritarashtra and Gandhari stayed with us for more than a decade.
Then they decided to renounce the mainstream life and walk into the
forest to spend the sunset years of their lives in austerity.
When I came to know about Dhritarashtra’s decision, it crashed
down upon me like a rebuke. Though it was a popular culture among
Kshatriyas at that time to relinquish material pleasure towards the end of
their lives, somehow I felt that it was our inability to keep them well that
forced them to take such a decision.
In fact, I was not entirely wrong.
Bheema was still livid with hatred. He could never forgive Dhritarashtra
and Gandhari—Dhritarashtra in particular. The war actually never ended for
him. In the absence of Duryodhana and his brothers, he was still carrying on
the battle against their hapless parents. Bheema’s every single act was a
deliberate insult to the broken old couple. We tried our hearts out to make
him realise that they did not deserve any further punishment as they already
had had enough of it. Even Draupadi, gracefully got over her bitterness and
was taking excellent care of the old couple. Kunti, Arjuna, the twins and
myself were extremely cautious and sensitive in dealing with them lest they
feel unwanted in our kingdom.
But Bheema was not being able to show any kindness to them in spite of
our repeated warnings. Dhritarashtra, quite sensibly, never complained
against Bheema. He only let me know of his decision of leaving. We went
to meet Mother hurriedly to apprise her of the development. I was feeling
tense thinking of her reaction.
‘I know, son,’ Kunti’s reply surprised us.
‘Do you know they are planning to leave the kingdom for good?’
‘Not exactly do I know, but I can anticipate. Our time is done, son. Now
it is time for us to find peace in a reality less familiar to us—far away from
wealth, glory and cheers.’
But her use of first person pronouns like ‘our’ and ‘us’ sent a shiver
down my spine. What did she want to mean? Was she planning to
accompany Dhritarashtra and Gandhari?
Why? Why did our mother—a perpetual mystery that she had always
been—choose to accompany the parents of our enemies plucking herself
away from the mesh of all earthly addictions just at a time when her
illustrious sons were able to bring the whole world at her feet?
‘The tears of Dhritarashtra and Gandhari will bring you and your
kingdom bad luck, my son. But if they have your mother by their side to
wipe away those tears, that bad luck will not befall you. You will always
remain protected.’
It did not make any sense to me and I am sure, nor to Draupadi and my
brothers. Or rather, we were not in a position to realise that. Kunti’s
announcement triggered an almost maniacal reaction from my brothers.
After it sank in a bit, Bheema asked her in a choked voice, ‘Then why did
you make us fight the war, if you had no taste for the victory of your sons?’
Bheema’s indignant question was as blunt as usual.
Kunti beamed an unfamiliar smile. The depressed twilight had cast a
shadow on her face, making her look even more unfamiliar. Her poised
words flowed past my ears like an indifferent river without seeping inside,
‘Because that was the only way my sons could have won back their lost
rights in this world. The war had to be fought for your cause, not mine. I am
also almost as old as Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. I am also past the best
part of my life. I had everything when my husband was the king. Though
your happiness makes me happy today, I am missing him too dearly.
Somehow I feel that I do not belong here now. Now I too wish to detach
myself and go spiritual. Wherever I be, I am always there for you. Please,
don’t stand in my way this time’—as if I had always stood in her way!
 I find it too difficult to describe exactly how I felt at that moment. During
our childhood, we five brothers had once experienced a violent earthquake
deep inside a jungle. A big tree branch had cracked and fallen down on my
head giving a deep cut just over my left brow. But more than the pain of the
wound, what troubled me was a terrible load of responsibility that I was not
yet prepared for. Standing on a rocking earth, lost inside a dense jungle,
with my little brothers all cuddling up to me and without any adult around
to rescue us; I had found myself in a dreadful quandary.
I was feeling just the same that time. Mother had been so mentally
inseparable from us that I never could think of a life without her. Though
my brothers were trying their best to stop her, I stood aside. I knew it was
useless. I knew why Kunti took such a decision.
She could never forget Karna, for sure. She could never forgive herself
for ruining Karna’s life. In her youth, she had left her firstborn when he
needed her the most. And now, after a long long time, she was ready to
leave her other children while she herself needed them the most. She
wanted to punish herself that way. The success that came at the expense of
her first son could not interest her any more. Unknown to us, we had treated
Gandhari and Kunti the same way by killing their sons! One Karna’s loss
gave her as much pain as the loss of one hundred sons did to Dhritarashtra
and Gandhari. Kunti never allowed herself to be happy—consciously or
unconsciously, she needed to remain unhappy for atonement.
Uncle Vidura and Sanjaya, the last relics of an era of vintage romanticism
about truthfulness, too decided to accompany them. We became the senior
most generation of the kingdom.
Vidura was happier than anybody else to see me regain my kingdom. But
at the same time, he never could effectively get over the destruction. He had
long been showing signs of progressive reticence. His decision to leave us
surprised me the least, though harmed me the most—personally. Vidura was
my soul. If Krishna was my awakening, Vidura was my existence. Many
considered me as an extended ego of Vidura and I took pride in that. My
misfortune it was that I would not get more of Vidura in my life.

-2-
The five veterans selected a full moon day of the month of Kartika to bid
final goodbye to the kingdom that would never be able to obscure them
from its memory.
There were not many talks when we bade goodbye to our mother. There
was only an endless stream of tears. It is too difficult for me today to
recreate that moment through my words.
Before leaving, Kunti left three messages for me:
‘Take good care of Sahadeva; he will miss me the most. Always
remember Karna and make charity in his memory. All of you should stay
united and make Draupadi happy—there should be no more tears in her
eyes.’
I think, Kunti could be understood best through her parting message.
Sahadeva was not her biological son, yet she loved him the most. In spite
of having four sons of her own (including Karna) she was able to give her
stepson the best part of her love and affection. Ironically, the same woman
had left her firstborn Karna in order to feign chastity. If that seemed like a
contradiction, Kunti herself resolved it by remembering Karna every single
moment of her life. Her abandoned firstborn became the most private
obsession in Kunti’s life. She had become a mother only bodily when she
gave birth to Karna. But since then, she would develop into a real, complete
mother. To Draupadi also, she was much more than an ordinary mother-in-
law. With utmost care, she groomed a fiesty, fire-born daughter-in-law into
the queen of queens. She was a glorious precedent—a true role model in
front of Draupadi.
Like any other woman, she too was of many parts but transcending her
all other selves; she ultimately remained a mother, quintessentially, in the
broadest sense of the word.

-3-
Life was not easy in Hastinapura without the five veterans, especially Kunti
and Vidura. Just inside a few months since they had left, we decided to pay
them a visit to the forest they were camping at.
The reunion was tearful yet happy. We found them staying in an
unflattering austerity. A couple of ill-constructed huts were their
accommodations! Nevertheless, they seemed to have been in a peculiar
happiness that I completely failed to deconstruct. One thing became clear to
me: they were home, finally!
But we did not see Uncle Vidura anywhere around. Where was he?
‘He is observing the most severe kind of penance. He has shunned food
for good and is meditating inside the densest part of the jungle. He has been
reduced to bones. Very rarely has he been seen of late. If you are fortunate,
you can get to see him.’ Dhritarashtra said grimly, with his hand stretched
towards a remote section of the forest.
Something in my mind told me I should meet him immediately. Many
times in my life have I heard such voice from within. I did not waste any
more time. My brothers and Draupadi were busy prating with Mother and
Gandhari sitting around them. I let them carry on and rushed towards the
direction of the forest Dhritarashtra had shown me. I was confident that I
would surely find Vidura. Because, I was confident that he would surely
find me, at least for once—possibly for the last time!
I entered the jungle. I had my royal sceptre in my hand (I had grown this
bad habit of late!) which I was using to scythe through the weeds shrouding
my path. I was calling him at the top of my voice, ‘Uncle Vidura…Uncle
Vidura…it is Yudhisthira… are you here? Do you hear me? Won’t you
come and see me? I want to meet you badly.’
The forest was eerily silent. Only my voice was audible. Each time I
shouted for Vidura, flocks of birds were taking off from treetops creating a
flutter that immediately subsided back into silence.
Suddenly, I heard a strange sound. It sounded as if someone was rushing
through the jungle bushes. The sound was moving away from me. Curious,
I chased the sound. I was so desperate that no fear of danger could cross my
mind at that time.
I saw a strange being—obviously a human—run away. The man was
shockingly thin. His bones were sharply jutting out from beneath his skin.
He was completely naked. His long, unkempt, dirty hair-strands formed
natural braids dangling from his head. His emaciated face was almost fully
covered with anarchic beards, most of which was whitish. The whole body
of the strange man was covered with scums and dirt. His hips were covered
with faeces, evidently excreted from his own body.
 He was not a good runner. Or, he did not have anything left in him to run
a good distance. I was catching up with him even running with half-speed.
He was panting and coughing. I recognised the coughing sound—I had
heard it many times!
That ghost of a man was none other than our Uncle Vidura—the wisest
Kaurava ever born!
‘Uncle Vidura, why are you running away from me? Can’t you recognise
me? I am your Yudhisthira. I have come to see you.’
He stopped. He had no other option though as he had run out of breath.
He tottered towards a big banyan tree and leaned against it to rest.
I looked at him carefully. What my venerable uncle had reduced himself
to! He too was staring at me. His complete transformation could not change
his eyes—to my pleasure. But was he struggling to recognise me? Had he
forgotten his Yudhisthira? Or, had he reached a different spiritual echelon
that blurred his worldly memories?
Though his expression did not change, I noticed a momentary flicker in
his eyes. Vidura recognised me! Would he say something to me?
I waited, holding my breath. I knew if he would say something in this
condition, it would be very very special. But nothing came from him. In
order to make him talk, I said again, ‘I am Yudhisthira… Yudhisthira…
don’t you remember me?’
Almost immediately I remembered what Dhritarashtra had said—Vidura
had stopped speaking or eating, as a part of an extremely punitive
meditative exercise he was following. It dampened my spirits to some
extent. If he would not talk to me, what was the use of meeting him?
Dejected, I cast my glances to him for one last time before turning my
back.
The light had already started to fade away. The dense forest looked
dusky, mysterious. A deathly silence was reigning in the place. It seemed
that the place was far away from the usually boisterous planet we were
familiar with.
But I could not turn back. Vidura’s eyes made me motionless. They were
shining like two brilliant sapphires as if all his vigour, wrenched out from
his skinny frame, found last refuge in his two eyes only.
Did he mean to convey any message through his eyes only? I felt so
captivated that even my eyes forgot to bat lids.
 Suddenly, I felt quaked by a stir. It came from an unknown depth of my
body. It was like a gentle commotion that briefly shook my limbs, my ego,
my senses, my intellect and my belief. The feeling subsided quickly.
To my great surprise, I found my eyesight strikingly improved! Even in
that dim light of that surreal twilight, I was almost seeing through that
impregnable jungle. I could even see the mole on a squirrel’s back that was
climbing down a mahogany tree at some distance.
Perhaps due to my much improved vision, I noticed another thing that
sent a chill down my spine. A very thin smoke-like mist was spiraling out
of Vidura’s skeletal body and disappearing into mine—as if something was
being transferred from Vidura to me! With an ordinary eyesight, I could not
have witnessed the bizarre phenomenon for sure.
I was hearing much better too. I could even hear a spider alight on a leaf
from a tree branch! I felt much stronger and fitter also. I sensed that my
knowledge, wisdom and physical abilities were suddenly increased
manifold by some strange magic.
That curious mist stopped emitting from Vidura’s body. He was still
standing aslant, leaning against the tree with lips slightly gaping. His eyes
were not shining anymore; rather they now assumed a dull, stony look.
I rushed towards him and shook him with my arms. His lifeless frame
fell on my chest with two frail arms dangling over my shoulders.
He died after having passed on to me his legacy in a manifest manner.
What an unbelievable gift that was for me!
I had heard Vyasadeva often say that Vidura too was an incarnation of
Lord Dharma—just as I am believed to be one. Was that why he had always
had special interest in me? On our first entry to Hastinapura, Kunti
introduced me to Vidura. Then she went on introducing my other brothers
to him. But Vidura’s stare curiously did not leave my face; neither did mine
from his. His smile was miserly, as usual, but his happiness was too copious
to miss. We got along almost immediately as if we had known each other
for long. He always made me feel special in his company. He was to me the
closest thing to a father.
Why was he always so desperately in support of me? I did not know
what he had found in me. Was he impressed with the popular belief that I
too carry a special relationship with Lord Dharma like him? Or, keeping
any divine reference out of consideration, was it just mutual love between
two ordinary mortals—a virtue not yet extinct from this troubled planet?
Vidura had always been a curious chapter in my life, but with his final
gift to me, he became literally inseparable from me.
…Kunti, Dhritarashtra and Gandhari did not live long further. Months
later, a sudden wildfire would burn them to death. They were too weak to
run away. At that time, we were in Hastinapura, several yojanas away from
the spot.
Mother thus made her redemption complete!
 20
Death of My God

-1-

S
ometimes I felt guilty. Did we cause Krishna too much stress? Was he
burning out, surreptitiously, beyond our notice? Was his godliness
waning gradually? I am afraid I may sound a little blasphemous here.
Was divinity, at least Krishna’s, an attribute that time could catch up
with?
What Arjuna told me once might imply something like that.
The relation between Arjuna and Krishna apparently dated back to their
previous births, as legend had it. They had been Nara and Narayana— two
mythical sages of enormous calibre—before being reborn as Arjuna and
Krishna respectively. Their relationship was impossible to describe, thanks
to our miserably restricted vocabulary. ‘Friends’ they were obviously,
though the word was an awfully inadequate representation of the emotional,
philosophical and spiritual bond the two illustrious men shared between
them.
‘Arjuna, I am yours and you are mine. Whatever I do have is yours—
only yours!’ I heard Krishna say that more than once. But was Arjuna good
enough a pupil to have been able to receive Krishna’s teachings in right
spirit? Arjuna himself admitted to me one day that he was not. He
apparently forgot everything what Krishna had taught him on that
remarkable morning at Kurukshetra just prior to the start of the war. It
sounded to me quite funny. I moved my face a little aside to hide a smile.
But my smile evaporated hearing what Arjuna said next.
 ‘Brother Yudhisthira, I requested Krishna to repeat that great counseling
session as I could not hold on to his teachings properly. Do you know what
he said?’
‘What?’ I felt curious.
‘First he rebuked me a little. Then a tired smile appeared on his face.
Believe me brother, I have never seen such a wry smile on Krishna before.
He told me that he was unable to repeat that performance! He is apparently
past his prime.’
It stunned me.
Was Krishna’s divinity time bound? Was it like any other physical or
mental attribute that wore down with time? Was he gradually becoming less
divine?
Or, was the matter more complex than that? Was it an indication that
Krishna’s mission had already been accomplished on this planet; for which
he was facing attrition? Was Krishna becoming passé?
‘Then what did he do?’ I shot out the question hurriedly.
‘He tried to make up, though. He told me what one ancient ascetic
Brahmin had taught Rishi Kashyap ages ago about those arcane truths of
life,’ Arjuna said as he twitched his face. Evidently, he had not taken much
interest in the counsel and was more worried about Krishna’s off form. But
I needed to know what Krishna had spoken about and I had to press Arjuna
for that.
‘It was about moksha —if I got it right. It seemed more like a soliloquy
than a conscious deliverance. The quintessence of what Krishna said was
that only a true yogi is aware of the absolute ephemerality of sorrow and
joy. He develops an apathy towards all worldly attractions, sheds all
physical and mental desires. As a lamp without fuel gradually dies down, he
attains nirvana . Krishna also said that one can behold the supreme soul in
his own self if he meditates intensely, removed from all earthly
distractions.’
I was listening with rapt attention. I did not know what Arjuna had made
out of it, but it was Krishna’s changed mood that touched a chord in me.
While action had been the need of the hour three decades ago, was this the
time for the curtain call for us?
I suspected it was Krishna’s discreet reminder to himself also that his
time was done. The inability to assume his previous form might have been a
testament of a quiet walk towards his twilight? Perhaps that was why his
words had sounded like a soliloquy to Arjuna.
I felt a shudder.
‘What are you thinking, brother?’ Arjuna’s question broke the web of my
thoughts.
‘Do you remember what happened to your chariot, Arjuna?’ The question
trickled down from my mouth without being consciously asked.
Arjuna made a face. How could he have forgotten that? Right after
Duryodhana’s death, as soon as Krishna and he had got down from his
Kapidhwaja, the chariot suddenly exploded. To a shocked Arjuna’s
question, Krishna had replied, ‘Unknown to you, Arjuna, your chariot was
destroyed long back thanks to many deadly missiles hurled at it. But due to
my association with the vehicle, it appeared undamaged. Now, after
Duryodhana’s fall, I don’t need to take up your reins again. I have now
separated myself from the chariot, so there it goes up in flames.’
Krishna’s matter-of-fact reply had shocked us all, Arjuna in particular.
We all had understood that the chariot was but a metaphor for a bigger, yet
ruthlessly simpler truth that we simply did not exist without Krishna.
‘When I will not be there….’
Krishna had been trying to say something with a naughty smile on his
face. We did not let him finish. Arjuna put his palm firmly on his lips,
gagging him. Bheema wagged his trembling index finger and warned
Krishna of a dire consequence if he would say that again. Sahadeva’s voice
suddenly choked and Nakula grabbed his right arm as if he was about to run
away. Draupadi took a long breath in with a hiss. Krishna laughed like a
mischievous child, leaving the sentence incomplete.

-2-
Krishna always gave an impression that even he himself was not outside the
ambit of destiny.
When Gandhari vented her wrath on him, Krishna humbly accepted her
curse saying it was apparently the destiny lying ahead. Why did Krishna so
gracefully allow the lady to curse him?
 Perhaps Krishna had a guilt-feeling. Krishna knew he caused Gandhari
an unbearable pain. He won us the war not fairly enough. He even
compromised his divine stature to some extent by involving himself in a
skirmish between two human armies. Everybody except that idiot
Duryodhana knew they would lose; just because they had a god on the other
side (or perhaps even Duryodhana knew that!). But Krishna did not want to
escape the lashes of the doom he himself helped cause. Perhaps he himself
was so destined. Destiny or no destiny, it was Krishna’s nobility that he felt
the urge to expiate by allowing a bereaved mother to punish him.
Krishna perhaps did not want to explain to us why he indulged Gandhari.
Why should he have? Probably in order to stop queries from imbeciles like
us, he chose to cite destiny where all bucks would stop.
If destiny were so inevitable, why was this world in such dire need of
Krishna—an avatar ? Why was he then required to perform miracles after
miracles to sort out things? Krishna’s very existence among us proved that
even the gods were not willing to resign to destiny completely; instead they
needed a divine manifestation like Krishna on their behalf to put the house
in order.
Even after Duryodhana’s demise, Krishna was required to summon his
divinity one more time for our cause. That was Krishna’s last miracle and
arguably, his greatest. Ashwatthama’s deadly weapon had killed the embryo
in Uttara’s womb leaving us heirless. She gave birth to a stillborn baby. The
labour room was filled with moans and sobs which were fast growing into
wild, loud, reckless lamentation. Ashwatthama’s revenge was too nasty to
withstand. The glorious legacy of the Kuru house stood precariously on the
verge of extinction.
In came Krishna. He stormed into the labour room. Kunti, Draupadi,
Subhadra all were busy consoling the poor Uttara who suffered the loss of
her husband and her baby inside only a few months. It took us a lot of
strength to look at the girl’s face.
Krishna took the lifeless baby in his arms and brought him outside. I
observed the baby’s still face. The face was unmistakably Abhimanyu’s!
We all broke down once again.
Krishna turned around with the baby in his lap. As we saw Krishna from
behind, we could not see what he did. We only saw him lower his head to
the baby’s face; as if he was kissing the baby or whispering something into
his ears.
Then we heard a sound. Believe me, it was the first cry of a newborn
baby!
All present there reacted in a ridiculously bizarre way. It seemed as if
they had been thunderstruck! The happiness was so profound and
unexpected that our expressions completely belied our reactions.
Pareekshit, the baby so named by Krishna, is in his breathtaking youth
now. He is being tutored, trained and groomed under many pairs of eyes.
Pareekshit returned to us all the happiness we had long seen off. He has
done us proud by showing all sorts of promises we cherished to find in our
heir. Like his father and grandfather, he is turning out to be a formidable
warrior in his own right. That the throne of Hastinapura is going into safe
hands is a certainty, touchwood.
By the way, he has learnt to come out of the chakravyuha ! In fact,
Arjuna had taught him to exit from the chakravyuha even before he taught
him to enter into it. A lesson well learnt, though at a cost agonisingly dear!
It was Krishna who saved our clan from extinction.

-3-
‘Something terrible has happened, O King Yudhisthira,’ cried Daruka.
Learning that Daruka, Krishna’s charioteer, had paid an emergency visit
to Hastinapura, we had him shown in to my royal assembly with due
honour. But a visibly appalled Daruka seemed to be in no mood to
acknowledge niceties. Unmindful of any courtesies, he rushed straight
towards me huffing and blurted out the horrible news.
We all had stood up meanwhile, holding our breath.
‘A gruesome disaster has befallen Dwarka. All the inhabitants of Dwarka
went to Prabhas for pilgrimage. Everybody was happy and enjoying until a
sudden quarrel broke out between Satyaki and Kritavarma over a trifle.
Then…Satyaki cut off Kritavarma’s head. Kritavarma’s men pounced on
Satyaki and killed him. Pradyumna too was killed….’
‘But how are Krishna and Balarama?’ We cried in unison.
 I learnt from Daruka that even Krishna and Balarama had been overtaken
by the evil time. Balarama had renounced his life. Balarama, widely
regarded as an incarnation of Shesha, the king of Nagas, had left his mortal
body apparently in the form of a gigantic, multihooded serpent that came
out of his mouth and entered into the progressing sea to return to the Naga
kingdom at pataala .
‘And K-Kr-Krishna…?’
I could not understand who asked that, as the voice was too distorted
with anxiety to be recognised!
Krishna had been meditating deep inside a jungle. He was apparently
struck on his left foot by a misguided arrow of a hunter. The hurt, though on
his foot, was fatal. The hunter fell on Krishna’s feet for pardon. Krishna
consoled the hunter, and assumed the much celebrated form of Lord Vishnu
before leaving for his celestial destination.
Daruka informed us further that the doom of the Yadavas had been
triggered ostensibly by a saucy prank. Some very famous sages including
the likes of Vishwamitra and Kanva had paid a visit to Dwarka. Under the
influence of the imminent bad time, Shamba (Krishna’s son from
Jambavati) and his friends plotted to spoof them. Shamba disguised himself
as a pregnant woman, and his friends asked the sages to forecast whether
‘she’ would bear a male baby or a female. The enraged sages cursed that
Shamba would beget a massive iron club which would cause the errant clan
of Yadavas to perish. Worried, the Yadava elders ordered that the club be
crushed to dust and the dust scattered around the edges of the kingdom.
Those iron dusts helped grow a peculiar kind of grass which would later
turn into numerous clubs and maces. When the riot ensued at Prabhas, those
clubs were extensively used and helped the great Yadavas slay each other.
The terrible account of Daruka did not touch me. Because although my
ears were open, I was busy grasping a fact that was flying like a moth inside
my mind: Krishna was no more!
We shall never get to see him ever again!
We shall never….
Yes. Our god was gone for good. Gandhari’s curse finally had crashed on
him and his men. I suddenly felt all air was pumped out of my lungs. I
gasped violently. Fretting, I looked around. Unbeknownst to me, the world
had meanwhile assumed the look of a wasted, vintage woman well past all
good things of life. The sunshine, the breeze, the chirp of birds, the glory,
the love, the lovelessness, the relationships, the victory, the defeat—
everything started to lose meaning. The world without Krishna was to me
like a fruit wrenched dry of its juice.
I sent Arjuna to Dwarka to attend Balarama and Krishna’s funerals.

-4-
‘Krishna was lying in his typical posture—on his back with face slightly
turned leftwards, two arms folded on his chest, ankles touching each other
and feet slightly apart forming a little triangle. I always saw him in the same
posture while he slept. Yet, he looked very different, brother. The familiar
smile was not there on his face. There was an uncomfortable stiffness in his
repose and he appeared to be in a seriously deep sleep. His lips were
slightly parted. Though he was draped in most expensive clothes, a bandage
on his left foot was drawing notice. He was lying on a grand pyre, which
was lit by Vajra, his greatgrandson. Krishna’s body was burnt to ashes right
in front of my eyes. Brother, our Krishna burnt away into thin air!’
That was how Arjuna described to us his last meeting with Krishna. He
was giving his account staring vacantly into the wall.
Poor Arjuna had to perform the last rights of Krishna and Balarama, as
Krishna himself had so desired. Some of Krishna’s wives mounted the
burning pyre to accompany their beloved husband even to death; some went
to an obscure village in the Himalayas to spend the rest of their lives
worshipping Krishna and Lord Vishnu single-mindedly. The roaring sea
was gobbling up the great city of Dwarka. Arjuna took all the women and
children alongwith him and left the place. As soon as they had left Dwarka,
the sea completely devoured the entire wen of the inconquerable Yadavas.
Krishna’s death suddenly made me aware of our own waning abilities. I
looked at my brothers and Draupadi. Due to a blurred vision caused by too
much familiarity, I had not noticed how time had taken its toll on them in
these days. Nowadays Bheema, the gigantic muscleman who had become
almost synonymous with his mountainous mace, was not even able to lift
that mace, let alone wield it, owing to a torn shoulder ligament and
recurring back pain. His curly hair had long turned white and his stony
muscles coalesced into saggy flab. Nakula and Sahadeva were sporting
white beards. Their usual vivacity had long disappeared. Some white
patches had appeared on Nakula’s face and body, marring his beauty to a
good extent. Sahadev’s once infallible memory was faltering noticeably of
late. Both were reduced to depressed shadows of their illustrious past.
Arjuna, my world beating brother, was suffering from poor eyesight, and
had to squint severely while he tried to mark with attention. His arrows
regularly missed targets and were too gentle to dent anything falling in their
ways!
And that old lady, leaning against the door and listening to Arjuna with
teary eyes! Today I noticed how a web of wrinkles shrouded her legendary
beauty; how a poignant fatigue took lustre away from her eyes that had
once been blazing; how her body that had once been like a swaggering whip
became bent like a thumb now! Time did not spare our Draupadi either.
And me! The crystal walls of my palace mirrored myself to me.
Surprisingly, I found myself least affected by time. Aged I no doubt, but
evidently not as devastatingly as my brothers and wife did. I knew why. My
game was not yet over. Unlike my brothers and wife who had lived
spectacular lives, I would conclude my comparatively unimpressive mortal
tenure on a real high. I would become a lasting impression on humanity
with a masterstroke still undelivered!
However, the writing on the wall was quite clear to all of us. This world
had ceased to belong to us and vice versa. We, completely unanimously,
decided to renounce everything and embark on Mahaprasthan , voluntarily
walking out of this worldly life.
The thought, rather decision of renunciation, did not upset any one of us.
Actually, our bond with this fascinating planet loosened the very moment
Krishna…well….
But there were some administrative and social issues to settle before we
could indulge ourselves with the ultimate liberty. We had to enthrone
Pareekshit and Vajra, the greatgrandson of Krishna, as the sovereign kings
of Hastinapura and Indraprastha respectively.
Yuyutsu, the lone surviving son of Dhritarshtra who fought on our side,
was made the regent to Pareekshit. The very old yet able Kripacharya was
appointed as Acharya to both Pareekshit and Vajra. Except Draupadi and
Subhadra, our other wives went back to their respective places. Subhadra
would become the royal matriarch both at Hastinapura and Indraprastha. As
expected, Draupadi decided to accompany us to our journey towards
salvation.
Finally, the day came. There was insane lamentation all around. I
remembered the day when we had been exiting from Hastinapura after my
defeat in the pasha game. That day also, people had gone berserk with
grief. But on that day we had been ablaze with anger and hatred while today
we were gripped with an indescribable lull of emotions. A deep, solemn
feeling laid seige on my mind. It was a clear symptom that our detachment
had been complete and irreversible.
We stripped ourselves of royal attires, ornaments, even footwears. Then
we five brothers and Draupadi, all clad in two pieces of tree-barks each, got
out of that monstrous gate of the city of Hastinapura.
After walking some distance, we paused to turn around to have one last
look at our Hastinapura. I silently paid my last salute to our noble heritage
and blessed Pareekshit and Vajra. Then we again turned around to resume
our journey.
‘From now onwards, none of us will turn back even for a moment, come
what may. That is for strict compliance,’ I issued my last instruction to my
brothers and wife.
 21
The Last Companion

-1-

W
e started the expedition as pilgrims, talking minimally among
ourselves and taking frugal meals only once a day. We walked
eastwards for days together and passed through many familiar
states before reaching the Louhitya sea.* We crossed those places
through dense jungles and hilly terrains in order to avoid curious attentions.
On reaching the Louhitya, we advanced southwards and arrived on the
northern bank of the Lavana Sagar. From there, we started travelling west.
Meanwhile, a seventh member was added to our group—a dog! I did not
know exactly from where it had been following us and noticed it only when
we were near the Louhitya. It was a petty ordinary street dog, a mongrel
perhaps. Initially we got slightly curious observing its determined pursuit
but then started ignoring it. The dog, as if with some conviction, kept
following us tenaciously.
We walked on and on to reach the west ridge of the country. When I
looked at those fearsome yet beautiful sea waves splashing on the western
shores of the Aryavarta, my heart contorted with an excruciating pain. Here,
once upon a time, the city of Dwarka had existed. My brothers and
Draupadi were sobbing, remembering Krishna. I too felt like crying but not
a drop of tear rolled down. There were no more tears left in me to offer to
the memory of Krishna—our deiform alter-ego. But that sudden pain in my
heart reminded me that I was still short of fully disposing off ordinary
human sentiments. We left the place and started our northward journey.
 From that moment, we subjected ourselves to extreme penance shunning
food and water completely. Our actual hunt for transcendence coincided
with our ascent up the Himalayas.
A deep secret of life got unravelled before me during this arduous
expedition. It is the zealous addiction for this world that makes a human
being so weak, so charmingly tentative. Once he manages to break free
from it, can he discover an enormous trove of power mined inside him.
With every single step, we were realising it. I did not know if the dog,
which was still accompanying us, was feeling the same way. We lost count
how many days or months we had been travelling for—starving at that.
But still, even that new found strength was bound to wear away at any
finite length of time. We had already crossed the Haimavata mountain and
the golden peaks of the grand Meru Parvat became visible.
Suddenly, Draupadi fell down. My brothers bewailed aloud and rushed to
her aid. Everything was happening behind my back and I was hell-bent on
not turning around even for a moment. I heard them running towards our
fallen wife who was crying in pain.
‘Nobody shall turn back! Remember, you are on Mahaprasthan , not an
ordinary pilgrimage. You are not allowed to look back,’ I yelled at them,
bringing the cry out almost from the depth of my navel.
Nobody knew that I had awaited this moment all my life! It was my
secret curse on her. I never forgot to renew that curse every single morning.
Today, it came true. But her fall was not enough. We must leave her behind
alone in the company of remorses and despair—not to mention the
horrifying loneliness—to make my revenge complete!
That ancient, primordial wound was still so fresh in my mind! I was still
capable of summoning such a devastating hatred! Draupadi’s fall and my
secret reaction made me aware that in spite of peeling off several layers of
humanity, the very core of me was still throbbing with banal, familiar
worldliness. I was still a human—a too ordinary one at that!
‘Brother, she was one of the purest women of all time. She was
impeccable in her duties and roles. Why…why did she have to fall? Why
could not our beloved complete her journey?’ Bheema asked, weeping
excessively.
I felt sorry. Not for Draupadi, but for Bheema— my poor, simple brother.
He was so uncomplicated like a child!
 ‘Do you seriously still not understand why she fell?’ I asked him,
pushing ahead through light drizzles of snow.
‘No, why?’ asked Bheema with an uncontrollable curiosity. His naivete
was amazing and it compelled me to utter the unutterable, for the first and
the last time ever!
‘Because she could not love her husbands equally. Actually, she only
loved Arjuna,’ I explained matter-of-factly, raising my voice intentionally. I
wanted my reply to reach Draupadi, if she was still in her senses.
Bheema became silent. I knew that with that bitter morsel of truth, I
successfully managed to pollute his loyalty to Draupadi. I was successful in
planting in everybody’s mind a hurting discomfort. Nobody was sobbing
anymore—at least for some time, their grief got spiked with more
complicated thoughts. Even Arjuna ceased weeping. My brazen plain
speaking made him feel guilty too, perhaps. I was only hearing their
footsteps behind my back. I also heard a faint cry of the poor, dying woman
from a distance.
‘Forgive me, my love! Meet you soon,’ I mumbled with a big sigh and
walked on. My vengeance had reached its mark. But strangely, there was no
relief or contentment in me. Instead, I felt tears suddenly well up and stream
down endlessly from my eyes, contrary to my belief that I had run out of
my entire reserve of tears.

-2-
Draupadi’s fate changed our spirit for the worse. The sorrow was gradually
spreading through my senses like a lethal drug. My chants were often
overlapping one after another blending into a meaningless babble. Sounds
of frequent sniffles and jittery footsteps were coming from behind.
The resolve of my brothers was clearly ruptured.
They were faltering and stumbling. We five brothers were mortally
missing our wife.
I heard somebody crash down.
‘Brother brother, look Sahadeva too has fallen!’ Bheema shouted. The
journey of Mother Kunti’s pet was over.
 ‘Now, what for did that spotless innocent have to fall?’ Bheema needed
to know.
I did not have any ready answer for that, for Sahadeva had always carried
himself so correctly and with such integrity that he never gave anybody any
opportunity to complain. But…but…perhaps he was little too proud of his
wisdom and considered others inferior to him in intellect. I did not know
whether Bheema bought my explanation. I had an intuition that more such
questions were about to come from him. I must be ready with answers.
Nakula could not bear the trauma of losing his inseparable twin and he
too collapsed only a few steps ahead. The most demure and perhaps the
most sensitive Pandava, Nakula always had a silent, charming presence
around us and was ever ready to do anything for me. His only weakness
was an inordinate, almost idiosyncratic admiration for his own physical
appearance that sometimes lent him the image of a man too self-indulged,
contrary to the type he actually was.
‘See brother see! Nakula too!’ Bheema’s voice sounded like a rumbling
volcano. There was no panic or astonishment in his voice this time; there
was only pain. Bheema, clearly, was bringing himself to accept the
inevitable mortal phenomenon.
‘Yes. He was to fall. He believed he was the most beautiful human being
in the world and was too infatuated with his own self!’ With a prompt
explanation, I kept walking on and on, hardening my jaws.
Death already advanced into my closest circle like a hungry predator and
had already consumed my wife and two stepbrothers. We three, sorry four
—that dog was still travelling alongwith us—were slouching towards the
unknown. Arjuna and Bheema both were too broken to walk, both
psychologically and physically. They were already lagging behind me by
some distance. Though I was not feeling much better either, I knew they
would soon be down and also knew why.
Arjuna’s time had now come. He dropped down almost without any
sound as probably he had been staggering with bent knees and a bent back
before his fall.
‘Arjuna…why…?’ Bheema was too worn out to complete his question.
It was rather easy for me to explain. Of all my brothers, it was only with
Arjuna I shared a little uneasy relation. I had learnt to live in his shadows.
Moreover, he always enjoyed better shares of the two things I cared for the
most—Draupadi and Krishna. Possibly Arjuna too had an unkind feeling
towards me, for agreeing to marry Draupadi. Arjuna’s undoing might have
been due to his boastful claim that he could annihilate his enemies in one
single day which he actually could not. Moreover, Arjuna considered none
of his peers as his equal in warriorship. Though he was not essentially a
braggart by nature, he had a hidden superiority complex that caused him to
fall.
While I was commenting on his follies to Bheema, my voice was
trembling. With him no more around me, my love for Arjuna surfaced like
an eruption. My illustrious brother who had brought the entire world at my
feet, whose military skills had been talismanic, who had been instrumental
in bringing our Krishna so close to us, who had been our perennial fame
and pride—was suddenly gone for good! For the first time in his dazzling
life, Arjuna did not care for my security and selfishly retired into the realm
of eternal peace, leaving me unattended, uncared.
Bheema and that extraordinary dog were still accompanying me. The
journey became a tormenting ordeal for Bheema who was completely
drained out. As he had always been, Bheema was not ready to accept defeat
even at the hands of time. He was carrying on stubbornly. But I realised that
he was only torturing himself by trying to continue. I loved him so much
that I wanted his sufferings to end and wished him death. If he was not
destined to complete the adventure, travelling down a few more kroshas
was pointless, especially in such difficulty. He should better meet his end
now and rest in peace, I said to myself.
There was a loud thud behind me. Something heavy had fallen. I slowed
down. ‘Bheema… Bheema…are you alright?’ I asked softly.
‘Brother…I am done too! Can I…can I see your face…one last time?’
Bheema cried, ripping apart my heart. But I could not grant him his last
wish. I could not resist my mind from turning back during this last journey;
but I must restrain myself from turning my face around.
‘Sorry Bheema. I can’t. But you shall see my face quite soon, don’t
worry.’
‘I wish you remain alive…for…thousands of years, brother!…I shall
wait for ages up there to see you again…no hurry…you take care, brother…
succeed…and forgive me…for the harsh words…I often told you….’
Bheema was gasping convulsively, ‘…but just tell me why I have fallen.’
 It took me great deal of strength to prevent myself from bursting into a
cry. Bheema was to me what Balarama had been to Krishna—the reckless,
innocent sibling who needed to be contained with care and with deep
understanding. He found in me the solution to his every confusion just like
Balarama would in Krishna. But they were not blind followers; rather often
argued vociferously only to resign inevitably to our reasonings at the end. I
loved Bheema so much because he had been the perfect foil to my
personality all his life. Bheema’s only ambition in life was to see me happy
and on top of the world, though his idea of happiness did not always
necessarily match with mine.
But why did Bheema the innocent fall?
Gluttony was considered a sin. Bheema ate voraciously, often being
unmindful whether others had enough left for their consumption. His
excessive greed for food became his nemesis. Coupled with that was his
typical egotism of a mighty warrior that Arjuna too was not free from.
‘Take…care…brother,’ his voice trailed away after a hiccup. With him, I
lost my greatest loyalist and more importantly, my last human company on
this earth.

-3-
The dog and I kept footslogging. After Bheema’s fall, the first thing I
noticed was that I completely lost my sense of direction. I was so
preoccupied with handling multiple bereavements, so disturbed with
memories of my late wife and brothers, so absorbed in examining
relationships that I became totally unaware where I was heading to.
I had not eaten anything for months. Yet, I was not feeling hungry. The
biting cold that had been cutting through my flesh days ago was not
troubling me much nowadays. I was not feeling thirsty either. My mighty
brothers, who were physically fitter and stronger than me, had long perished
while my fight was still on. That meant I was gradually overcoming
ordinary physical limitations of a mortal being. But occasional fits of
depression were reminding me that I was yet to transcend to a different
echelon as my mind was still not prepared.
 I looked at my lengthening shadow as yet another day was approaching
twilight. The dog that had been following me from a distance was now
walking abreast, matching me stride by stride. I looked at him from the
corner of my eyes. Only my shadow and that dog seemed to remain
inseparable from me while all others had left. Undoubtedly, what I had
already achieved was unprecedented. No other human being had ever been
able to endure such inclement condition so long. The strength that my
lifelong devotion to dharma endowed me with was responsible for this
amazing achievement.
Suddenly I had a disturbing turn of mind. Was not what I believed as
achievement actually a curse? Was not that specious sense of fulfillment
actually a dreadful lucklessness—a punishment almost as severe as the one
Ashwatthama had received from Krishna? What a horrifying singleness I
was reduced to on my last journey! Nobody does deserve a death in
solitude. And Dharmaraj Yudhisthira, once the Lord of the world, would
meet his end completely unattended, unnoticed and unmourned, with no
tears, fanfare, funeral or last rites to follow! I would not even be granted the
right to know exactly which sin of mine let me down!
With a leaden heaviness, I was walking uphill. The dog was now ahead
of me. I did not know which mountain it was. The dog and my shadow only
exacerbated the sickening loneliness that surrounded me. Though I had
always preferred to be blissfully alone than to give myself fully to the
madhouse the world had been; today, I desperately needed a human by my
side.
Night descended on that forlorn panorama like a sullen sigh. The endless
expanse seemed to be squeezing me from four sides and throttling me. For
the first time during this journey, I got frightened. But I did not know why.
Did I believe I still had anything to lose?
Then the full moon emerged to light up the setting. But it made the night
look even more terrible. The moon, with an oblique piece of cloud hung
across his face like a crooked smile, appeared to be mocking me, conniving
with those shimmering stars!
A hot breeze started to flow from my left. A foul stench was brought by
the breeze. I had got such smell from crematoriums, given out by burning
corpses. I tried to speed up but could not. I felt as if my legs got stuck in a
bog.
 ‘King Yudhisthira, please do not leave me! Please do stay here for a little
longer,’ a horrible shriek ripped apart the silence all of a sudden.
Who? Who was that? Flinched, I looked around. I saw some blackish
smoke spiraling out of a narrow col to my left. The cry came from there.
But the voice appeared familiarish to me!
‘I am Karna, O King. You have brought a sacred whiff of air with
yourself. Ahhhh! I feel so good now after years of suffering. Please don’t
go.’
My head was reeling! I sat down on my knees! What had I heard just
now! Meanwhile, the stink became more intense and it started coming from
all around. I started crawling towards the smoke to find Karna.
‘O Dharmaraj , here I am—your beloved Draupadi. I have been
suffering so much. Please come to me and stay here for a while. Let me
have some peace, please.’
Draupadi! My love! She was calling me from behind! I stood up, turned
around and ran helterskelter towards the direction her voice was coming
from. Never ever had she wanted me with such pathos. I must find her from
wherever and hold her in my arms—something I had not done in years.
But a very dear voice floated from another side to stop me from going
towards Draupadi, ‘Uncle, it is Abhimanyu here! Please come to me at least
for once!’
Before could I react, I heard, ‘Here I am, your Bheema’, ‘It is Arjuna
here’, ‘Eldest, I am Nakula’, ‘Have you forgotten your Sahadeva, brother?’
from all over the place.
My mind was completely blank. Were they ghosts? I had seen all of them
die at different times. Were they calling me from beyond the great divide?
Why were they in so much pain? In the dim moonlight, I observed many
large iron cauldrons around, each emitting blackish smoke and that
obnoxious odour. The afflicted cries of my loved ones happened to be
coming from those enormous receptacles. Were they being burnt inside?
But why and by whom were those noble souls being tortured—even so
many days and years after their death?
A lizard squirmed over my feet. I looked down with a jerk. What I saw
beneath me made me warp my toes with great revulsion. It was no longer a
mountain rock I was treading on. Instead, I found myself squealching on a
muddy surface slimed over by blood, mucus, intestines and severed limbs
of human beings! I felt like vomiting but I could not throw up anything as I
had been fasting for months. The moonlit sky had meanwhile assumed an
ominous, brownish hue. I saw many bizarre looking creatures, familiar and
unfamiliar carnivores, goblins and birds around. I could not understand
which place this was and even less could I realise how I got myself here.
The wails of all my loved ones were making me insane, if I had been yet
to become one. I did not try to leave the terrible place any further and
decided to stay there till my last. Today, I found back all my treasured
relations. I was no more feeling lonely. I would never lose them again—not
even for the lure of heaven! My pursuit for paradise was over.
One particular voice among those ceaseless cries suddenly struck a very
special chord in me. ‘Father… father…I am here. Come to me please.
Please do spend some time by my side…please….’
Pratibindhya! It was Pratibindhya! My son! I must find him at any cost! I
must see his face now after such a long time. Nothing should stop me. I
went berserk and rushed towards the origin of the voice shouting,
‘Pratibindhya!…Pratibindhya…where are you?…Here I am coming, my
son…just hold on… coming…Pratibindhya!’
I ran recklessly and tripped over probably a torn limb of a mutilated
human body to bang into a thorny shalmali tree.
Then I passed out.

-4-
The morning sun has just brought me round. I find myself awkwardly stuck
in between two mountain rocks. I look around. There is no sign of that
horrible experience I encountered last night. It is the same rocky
surroundings of that unknown mountain.
Oh! What a hair-raising dream that was! The terrible memory shakes me
even now. Perhaps that is a figment of my subconscious mind. But was it
really a dream, or a hallucination caused by the high altitude and withering
physical and mental state?
Or was it a climax of the redemption that the entire expedition has
actually been for me?
 Yes. It must be so. Today, the sun lights up my conscience one last time,
only to remind me how I deceived Acharya Drona to pluck him out of my
way! I am a sinner of the worst kind. I am required to redeem myself.
‘No human being can escape hell and you are no exception.’ Vyasadeva’s
words seems to be booming from the endless depth of a labyrinth, getting
louder and louder with every ricochet off the walls of my memory.
Oh no! My dreadful dream was but actually my stint in hell! The
realisation dawns on me ushering in a morbid depression. I feel even more
pained knowing that all my loved ones are being scorched in eternal
hellfire. Not Duryodhana, Duhshasana, Jayadrath, Shakuni or my other
bitter enemies, only the ones I cared for have been sentenced to the infernal
punishment. What an impossible tragedy it is!
But Vyasa said more, I can remember: ‘You yourself will not want to
come out of hell once you enter it! There you will find all your near and
dear ones. You will salvage all of them from the pangs of hell and duly
regain paradise along with them.’
Really? Has my entry to hell really rescued them from the ordeal? Have I
been able to redeem myself too? I badly need somebody now to clear my
final confusion. I call it ‘final confusion’ because I know very well that I
will never have any confusion after this!
I hear light footsteps behind me. Turning around, I see that dog emerge
from behind a large rock. He is still alive! I almost forgot about him!
The dog advances towards me with slow, assured strides. I am leaning
against a stone. He comes very close to me. His eyes are shining like gems.
I do not know if he can smile; but I am sure he wants to—at least through
those expressive eyes.
The mysterious quadruped slowly walks past me. I am staring at him
breathlessly. After a few steps, he pauses, turns his head towards me and
slightly nods—as if he wants me to follow him!
I stand up and follow his trail. By now, it is clear to me that the
unassuming dog is my destiny. I must not let him leave me—not even,
literally, for heaven’s sake. Because now I know who this dog is. I
recognise my Lord Dharma finally, about time too!
Please forgive me, Father, for recognising you so late! Please pardon my
last mistake! ‘Last mistake’ it is, for I know I will not have to commit any
mistake after this!
 The dog climbs up the hill which is part of a continuous ridge.
Chaperoned by my illustrious father, I no longer feel forsaken and am ready
to face anything. I follow him with firm, confident steps to finally find
myself atop the ridge. And getting there, I am in for the surprise of my life!
Beyond the mountain crest, the first thing I can observe is a curtain of
mist through which is seen something that at first sight seems like a domain
of fancy. Though blurred by that ethereal haze, I can vaguely see an
exquisite landscape, as if painted by a genius of an artist using a lavish
palette. There are small, picturesque hillocks capped by fluffy clouds, lush
green surface, exuberant vegetation, disciplined wilderness, multicoloured
flowers, a dreamy, rippling river—a surreal realm it appears. A charming
aroma is soothing my nostrils and a mellifluous tune my ears. The scenery
is breathtakingly removed from the world I have been used to. The milieu is
hypnotising. My only regret is that the view is not clear enough due to that
diaphanous blind of fog.
I stand dazed. Is it another dream? Or a magical concoction? Is it the
habitat of an exotic tribe, enshrined in unfathomable alpine mystics hitherto
undiscovered by any mortal human being? Something tells me that in this
kingdom, there must be eternal happiness, peace and glory. I feel a strange
shiver in my limbs.
I see a dazzling vehicle—a golden chariot pulled by a number of milky
white horses gently advance towards us from a distance. Two divine
looking beings are present in the vehicle, one of them being the charioteer.
Their faces can’t be clearly seen. Will they receive me as honourable guest
or treat me as an intruder and prosecute? I am ready for either, if not
indifferent.
I feel a soft touch at my leg. It is the dog. I kneel down to hold him in my
armpit and clasp him close to my body. I do not know what is approaching
me—doom or fortune. Whatever be it, I shall face it head-on accepting it as
my destiny. Sorry—not ‘I’ but ‘we’ shall face it, rather. Nothing will be
able to separate the dog from me any more. Should my association with that
mangy animal cost me the cosmic glory or even bring upon me a disaster, I
do not care.
He is my last companion—not only in this world but even beyond. He is
my dharma .
The chariot is coming closer with a rhythmic rattle….
 The End

* Brahmaputra river.?
 SELECTED REFERENCES
The Story of The Mahabharata : Anantakumar Chakraborty
Chheleder Mahabharata : Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury
Mahabharata-Katha : Swami Tathagatananda
Mahabharata : Translation by Rajshekhar Basu
Mahabharata : Translation by Kaliprasanna Singha
Mahabharater Katha : Buddhadeva Bose
Mahabharata : C. Rajagopalachari
Panchajanya : Gajendra Kumar Mitra
Mahabharater Chhay Prabin : Dr. Nrisingha Prasad Bhaduri
Krishna, Kunti ebong Kaunteya : Dr. Nrisingha Prasad Bhaduri
Katha Amrita Saman : Dr. Nrisingha Prasad Bhaduri
Yuganta : Irawati Karve
The Battle of Kurukshetra : Maggi Lidchi-Grassi
The Indian Encyclopedia : Kamli-Kyouk Phyu
The Palace of Illusions : Chitra Bannerjee Divakaruni
Jaya : Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik
Ajaya : Roll of the Dice : Anand Neelakantan
The Mahabharata : Peter Brook (Film)
Wikipedia