The Uncrowned Son

“Devavrata!”

His tired eyes opened slowly. Normally, he would have just pretended to be asleep or unconscious. But he knew this voice. The only voice that called him by that name anymore. He wondered if he had imagined the voice in his desperation to talk to her. He wanted to think so. As much as he wanted to talk to her, he wished she were not here now.

“Devavrata!”

No. It was not his imagination. She was heading this way. His heart cried out loud. He could handle the pain that was flowing all through his body, but not this. She should not see him in this condition. She may not take it. Ah! Delusions. Mere delusions. He had no idea what was in store.

He tilted his neck painfully in the direction of the voice. A cloud of mist was taking shape as she floated on it towards him. Here was the mother of all rivers, the mother who washed all life forms of their sins. And, his mother too.

“What are you doing here, Devavrata?” she asked quite indignantly.

“Mathey!” he addressed her as he had always done.

“Is this what has become of the mighty warrior, the undefeated bulwark that was supposed to protect Hastinapur?”

He lowered his eyes in shame. Of course. Indifferent as always. There had been times when he had wondered if she was really the one who had given birth to him. But then, she had also wanted to drown him the minute he left her womb. What mother would do that, Karmic calculations be damned? But she had done that. Not once. Not twice. Seven times. He was to have been the eighth.

He wondered if it would have been better to have just gone then? Out of this miserable world back to where he belonged. He was after all, Prabhas, the light of shining dawn. One of the eight Vasus, the elemental gods. Driven by a moment’s greed he had stolen Vashishta’s cow and had been cursed to be born on Earth. The Vasus had entrusted Ganga with the task of giving them birth and quickly ending their mortal lives so they could avoid the misery of mortal living and go back to their world.

But Prabhas had not been so fortunate. His father had stopped Ganga from what he saw as paedocide. And Ganga had taken her eighth child with her. Prabhas had become Devavrata. His mother had taken him to the Preceptors of the Devas and Asuras who taught him the science of politics. In a rare exception, Parasurama had taught a Kshatriya the martial arts. A childhood unparalleled, thought Devavrata.

“But all of that for what?” Ganga interrupted his thoughts. “So you could just throw away what was rightfully yours?”

“Mathey?” Devavrata did not understand her anger. He knew that she had never been the loving mother. She was always the stolid, stoic guardian who wanted him to learn everything that was required for kingship. Hastinapur needed a successor. Pratipa had tweaked the tradition established by the revered Bharata. Instead of choosing the one most worthy as the next ruler, Pratipa had declared that his son Shantanu was the most worthy one. The best way to restore the old tradition without discrediting Shantanu would have been to make his son truly the most worthy one. And Ganga had seen to that. When Devavrata had finished his education, she handed him over to Shantanu informing him that there was none more qualified than Devavrata to become king. He had equal panache for governance and warfare. Hastinapur will remember him as the greatest ruler it had, she told Shantanu.

 Devavrata now remembered that she had not shed a single tear when she parted that day. Despite her cold demeanor, she had been the only family he had had and now she was gone. All through his life, in moments of sadness and anguish, he would go by the riverside and let her waters calm him. He still considered it a soothing experience.

“I wanted this city to realize its true greatness under your rule. I did not want my tardiness in drowning you to lead to your suffering. I ensured that you got the best of education. With your pedigree, you could have had such an exalted life.”

“But did he not?” he asked himself. Did the world not know him to be the finest warrior?  Did the Gods not bless him? Did they not give him the epithet of Bheeshma, the one of terrible vows? Did he not protect the throne of Hastinapur as was his sworn duty? Even when it seemed that the kingdom had no king, did the wolves not stay at bay, because his bow was still strung? Did he not take care of generations of the Kuru household?

“Yes. All that and much more. But you’ve also brought that household to the bloodiest war this country has known. You have led the house to be divided against itself and are responsible for this gory fratricide.”

“Mathey! But I tried everything I could to prevent this!”

“Oh! Don’t give me that. May be your paean writers can gulp that down. Not me. I know the numerous ways in which you have failed this kingdom and its people, Devavrata. When you gave up your inheritance to the throne, not only did you make your father happy, but you also threw away all the efforts I had made, as your mother, to educate you. Of what use was all that training when you were nothing but a caretaker?”

“Did I not have a duty to my father? Do the scriptures not say that? Did my guru Parashurama not do exactly that?”

“Parashurama is a Brahmin. His primary duty is to his household, unlike yours. Your duty was to protect the kingdom and its people, in which you have obviously failed. Just look around you. Does this place look like a kingdom well governed?”

“But I took a vow to serve anyone who sits on the throne after my father. I have merely been true to my word, Mathey!”

“Wasn’t it also part of the vow to ensure the right person sat on the throne?”

“Yes. And I have seen to it that the eldest and most eligible member of the Kuru clan has always occupied the throne. And I have been faithful to that throne.”

“No, you haven’t. If bloodline is the only thing that is important, you know that you’re the last surviving member of the Kuru bloodline. Pandu and Dhritarashtra carry Satyavati’s bloodline through Vyasa, not Kuru’s. But that is irrelevant. Your illustrious ancestor, Bharata, declared that bloodline was of no importance. He did not crown any of his nine sons as he believed that they were not eligible to rule. He considered it a crime against his people if he foisted on them a ruler merely based on lineage. But you, Devavrata, have failed him too. What if your father’s sons died without an heir? Even despite your pompous promise to not ascend the throne, Hastinapur was not devoid of brave, wise men who could have become rulers. Your duty as a caretaker to the throne would have been to advise anyone who was king, not to ensure that a particular family continued to rule.”

“But I made a promise to that fisherman, Satyavati’s father that her family would rule. How could I not keep my word?”

“Did you not make a promise to the people of Hastinapur that you would protect their interests? What is a promise to one man worth, if you reneged on a promise made to the entire rajya? You may have done the right thing by stopping the blind Dhritarashtra from becoming king. But what of Pandu? Did you not know that he was weak of heart and would never survive long enough? Why did you reject the wise Vidura? Because he was born to a maid? Well, Devavrata, Bharata would hang his head in shame if he was there. He crowned a commoner as his successor for the simple reason that the boy was brave and righteous. And did you think that the kingdom would praise you as the true successor to the noble Bharata? Ah! What vanity, Devavrata!”

At this, Devavrata said nothing. He knew what she said was right. He had been too loyal to the family and forgotten about the welfare of the state. He hung his head in shame.

 

But Ganga had no intention to stop. “What happened to your sense of duty when the kingdom was divided into two between brothers? Where were you when a ruler was gambling away his kingdom and people as if they were all his?  Should you not have intervened and said that as a ruler, Yudhishtra was the protector of his people and not the owner? Ignore the fact that Draupadi was the kula vadhu. Consider her to be an ordinary citizen. Where was your duty to Hastinapur when she was harassed in the open court? And what if she was gambled away by her husband? Were you not obliged as the protector to the throne to prevent its reputation from being tainted? And here. This war. Would Duryodhana have had the heart to fight it if you had decided that the best interests of the rajya lay in Yudhishtira becoming the ruler? And what did you do? Make another pompous oath. That you will kill ten thousand soldiers a day but will not kill the Pandavas. What kind of loyalty is that? No, Devavrata. Look around you. This war won’t last long. I don’t have to tell you how it is going to end. You know it by now. You have been disloyal to everyone. You have been disloyal to Dhritarashtra by not stopping his son from this war. You have been disloyal to Duryodhana in revealing to the Pandavas the means to defeat you.  And most of all, you have been disloyal to the people of this great rajya. How many of them have fallen on this battlefield? Hear, Devavrata. Hear. Hear the voices that cry out in pain as vultures and hyenas strip the living flesh from their dying bodies. Hear the earth grumble like a hungry stomach as it digests the sins of those that have fallen. And even before this stops, Devavrata, you will hear the wails of the womensfolk from the city. It will no longer be Hastinapur, Devavrata. The city of elephants is dead. It is merely the city of the widows and the orphaned. The happiness you brought your father and the blessings he gave you may very well take you back home to the Vasus. But remember, Devavrata. You will not be forgiven. Do not think that your deeds will bring you respect and glory. If you wish to use the remainder of your miserable life to atone for your sins, I suggest you start now.”

Saying thus, she seemingly disappeared in the shadows of the night. Devavrata could not close his eyes. He could hear the cries of fallen soldiers, at least ten thousand fallen at his own hands. He had indeed failed them. He thought he saw the moon and the stars hide themselves behind the clouds. They did not want to taint themselves by seeing him. The soil was considering continuing its support to him. To him, it seemed that even the arrows that passed through his body were trying hard to extricate themselves from him. And for the first time in his long life, Devavrata, Bheeshma of the terrible vows, cried.

The Daughter of Laughter

I sit on the railings of the balcony and rest my back comfortably on the latticed window that curtains the balcony. I stretch the bottom of my lehenga to cover my thin ankles. I want to watch what is about to happen in this great hall. And in style, too. This would be the high point of my otherwise uneventful existence. I rest my right arm on the trunk of the elephant that forms the capital of the pillar below the balcony. From here, I can see it all without worrying about being seen. As is the case with those hiding themselves behind the latticed window to watch all that happened without revealing themselves.

Today was not an ordinary day, even by the standards of this great hall. It would be a day of transformation. A day, when Time would stand still, and watch as His course is remapped. A day when my own life, short as it has been, would reach its climax. But no, we are getting ahead of ourselves. Let me tell you about myself. I was born a half day’s horse ride from here. Sometimes, I think I was born only because the ride was so short. Cousins had invited cousins to show them their newfound prosperity. And cousins had come to see what the hype was all about. Everything they found was beyond their wildest imagination. The place they were invited to was nothing short of a palace. And what a palace it was. Almost magical, it had a stream flowing right inside the household. And if that wasn’t enough, it had a variety of illusions to heighten the sense of mystery about it. Doorways disguised as walls, waterfalls to curtain windows, flooring polished so smooth that it would reflect the dancing lights on the ceiling and appear to be water, and pools in the floor so charmed to appear as solid stone. Built by a clever architect, it served its masters well. But it also proved to be the undoing of, should I call her my mother? I think I should. It also provided the womb for my birth, for without it I would never have come to be.

It was a bright, sunny morning. The Kaurava princes, still dizzy from the frivolities of the previous night, were strolling around the palace. They had been invited for the Rajasuya Yagna of the newly crowned Chakravarti, Yudhishtira and had decided to stay back. Long story short, the palace had decided to play with them and the solid floor Duryodhana stepped on, melted under his feet. The next moment he was in a pool of water, royal garments drenched and his crown bobbing like a cork next to him. Duryodhana looked around to see if anyone, apart from his brothers and Karna, had seen his rather disgraceful fall. To him, it did not matter that his crown jewels were swimming in the middle of the room. He wanted his pride to be intact. And it emerged, from behind the curtained windows. A laughter. Loud, derisive and encouraging a chorus of other voices to laugh along. Draupadi! The greatest maceman of the world had had it. It wasn’t enough that he had failed to win her over in the Swayamvar. It wasn’t enough for her that she had insulted his friend Karna. It wasn’t enough that her husbands had built the most splendid palace out of nothing. She had to be there to witness him in a rare moment of disgrace and laugh at it. And that was when I was born.

As I gathered form out of the resonating sounds of Draupadi’s laughter in the corridor, I saw another cloud collect around Duryodhana. His rage created a boy of my age and build, but crimson red to my dark form. I immediately understood. He was the son of Duryodhana’s rage just like I was the daughter of Draupadi’s laughter. We were siblings of Time. But being born of different parents, we looked quite different. I was dark, like all children of Karma, and resembling my mother. I grew up in her palace, quite fast for my age, for in the days and months that followed, Draupadi had repeated the tale to all who would hear. Their laughter nourished me quite well. I think the son of Duryodhana’s rage was also fed well. Duryodhana must have been reminded frequently enough of his humiliation in the presence of “that woman”, by his uncle Sakuni.

Oh! Here he comes! Invisible to the eyes of mortals, I am what he instantly he sees. He makes a beeline to get to the balcony railing. He is about the same height as I am. Well, a little taller, I think. But I can’t be sure. He sits right next to me. This is the first time I’ve met him after our birth. We have a lot of catching up to do. And by the looks of it, there’s not much time for us to do that. The day’s events seem to be starting. I ask him how his life has been. He tells me how Duryodhana had fed him continuously, with able support from Sakuni and Dushasana. He says he’s ready for the task at hand. I wonder what his task is. I already know mine. But wait, the hall is being readied for the day. I see servants of the palace arranging the seating and the cushions in the middle of the hall. Ostensibly, to show his gratitude for being invited to Indraprastha, Duryodhana had invited his cousins, the Pandavas, over to Hastinapur. As was tradition, gambling was part of the invitation. Yudhishtira, addicted as he was to gambling, had gratefully accepted.

The boy tells me that Duryodhana is on his way, after ample planning. Sakuni is going to play on his behalf. I inform him that Draupadi is in the womens’ chambers, resting after the trip. She will not be present at the court for another three days. Or so she thinks. I cast a meaningful glance at him. He has already told me what has been planned. It fits perfectly with the plan I have in mind. Our duties were charted out for us the moment we were born. This was the day we would fulfill them.

The events that followed passed in front of our eyes as a blur. We did not pay too much attention to them. This had been planned already. Sakuni’s dice implicitly obeyed his will. Yudhishtira started losing minor possessions and went to on to stake his ornaments, chariots, bullion, and even his kingdom. And lost them all. Each round that Yudhishtira lost, the generous Sakuni offered him a chance to win it all back in the next round. And Yudhishtira only lost even more. In what appeared was a final attempt, not because Yudhishtira had the good sense to stop, but because he had nothing more to lose, he staked his own brothers. And lost them one by one. He then lost himself and came to the conclusion that all was indeed lost. All this while, the elders of the Kuru clan sat around and said nothing. Bound by Dharma, my friend sitting next to me, pointed out. Yudhishtira wasn’t forced. He was doing it all of his own freewill.

Duryodhana was quite pleased. The palace that had humiliated him was now his. Part of his humiliation was now avenged. But the other part still remained. The vile Sakuni reminded Yudhishtira that he still had one possession left. “Draupadi!” prompted Karna avenging his insult at the Swayamvar.

Duryodhana would send his foot soldiers to bring Draupadi over. They would return, not with her, but with questions. The enraged Duryodhana would send his brother, Dushasana, to drag his new “maid” to the hall. I am ready. So is my partner. This is our cue. He takes my hand in his. The red of his and black of mine make vividly contrast. We slip from the railing and part hands. I float towards Duryodhana to fulfill my destiny. As he inhales me into him, out of his mouth comes the laughter that once belonged to Draupadi. Oh! And here she is! Being dragged by hair into the hall by Dushasana. I smile when I see that she’s wearing a single piece of cloth the color of vermillion. The contrast of the cloth on her dark skin, reminds me of my brief flirtation with my partner. But no time now. Duty calls.

The hall divides itself into muted cries of anguish and loud eruptions of laughter. As I flow through Duryodhana, he turns to Draupadi and calls her his “Dasi”. He boorishly proclaims that since her numerous “husbands” have failed to protect her, she should know seek refuge at his feet. Draupadi’s Karma floats through Duryodhana’s veins and his arm moves his lower garment from his thigh and taps it visibly.

I can see my partner rising within Bheema, the mighty Pandava. Bheema’s voice booms through the hall. He swears to break open that thigh of Duryodhana which he had offered to seat Draupadi on. As she begs the elders and her own husbands to save her honor, my partner and I are lost in our thoughts about each other. As I grow out of Duryodhana, he grows out of Bheema to embrace me. It is at that moment that Duryodhana orders that Draupadi be disrobed. What follows is of no importance to us. We are lost in each other. Out of our incestuous copulation cushioned by the silence of the helpless elders, is born an ugly cripple. His first vision is of the kulavadhu Draupadi being disrobed in the great hall of Hastinapur. Dushasana’s effort goes in vain as the more it is pulled away from Draupadi, the longer the vermillion garment grows. My son leers at us. He points to the Draupadi’s garment and then points at the Kauravas. Does he mean that it is Kaurava blood that is flowing in the hall? I wonder. I watch as the ugly cripple Revenge, the son of Karma and Rage, enters into each Pandava and Draupadi as they inhale him deeply.

Our task complete, my partner and I dissolve in peace. We are no more affected by the events that are about to happen. Curses and oaths shall follow. So shall a war and the end of an Age.