Living Bhagavad Gita 04

Short articles on the Bhagavad Gita for the busy, stressed working people of today. Discusses how to live the Gita in our daily life.

[Continued from the previous post]

Then Bhishma, the aged Kuru grandfather, roared like a lion and blew a powerful blast on his conch making Duryodhana’s heart leap with joy. BG 1.12

Bhishma thoroughly understands Duryodhana’s psychology and that is why without allowing him to continue, in a brilliant move, he roars like a lion and blows his conch powerfully making the whole war field boom with its sound.

In the Richard Attenborough movie Gandhi there is an amazing satyagraha scene which we cannot watch without holding our breath because of the intensity of the feelings it arouses in our heart. In May 1930, soon after the highly successful Dandi March against the salt tax imposed on India by the British, following a call given by Gandhiji, a large group of freedom fighters assemble to peacefully raid the British managed Dharasana Salt Works in Gujarat because, as Mahatmaji said, India’s salt belongs to India. We see a multitude of Indians waiting not far from the gate of the Salt Works ready to move towards the factory. There are several women volunteers waiting a little distance away to nurse those men who would be brutally beaten up by the policemen guarding the factory gate. And there are journalists present, covering the event.  The British want the event to turn violent, thus defeating Gandhiji’s determination to make the event non-violent. They arrest Gandhiji hoping it will provoke the people and turn them violent. But people are determined come what may they will not raise a hand: they will not fight back and they will not turn away and run.

As the first row of freedom fighters led by Maulana Abul Kalam Azad approach the gate, police batons come down brutally on their heads and shoulders. We hear the sound of bones cracking and people collapsing on the ground, blood flowing freely bathing their faces. As the women volunteers come forward and carry them away for first aid, the second line of freedom fighters move forward. Steel tipped police lathis come down heavily on their heads and shoulders too, crushing the skull and breaking bones. The scene is repeated again and again and we see the reporters turning their faces away, unable to stand the viciousness of the police and the silent, wordless superhuman endurance of the satyagrahis.

Here is how American journalist Webb Miller who was an eye-witness to the scene reports it:

“Not one of the marchers even raised an arm to fend off the blows... From where I stood I heard the sickening whacks of the clubs on unprotected skulls. The waiting crowd of watchers groaned and sucked in their breaths in sympathetic pain at every blow.

“Those struck down fell sprawling, unconscious or writhing in pain with fractured skulls or broken shoulders. In two or three minutes the ground was quilted with bodies. Great patches of blood widened on their white clothes. The survivors without breaking ranks silently and doggedly marched on until struck down. When every one of the first column was knocked down stretcher bearers rushed up unmolested by the police and carried off the injured to a thatched hut which had been arranged as a temporary hospital...

“Bodies toppled over in threes and fours, bleeding from great gashes on their scalps. Group after group walked forward, sat down, and submitted to being beaten into insensibility without raising an arm to fend off the blows. Finally the police became enraged by the non-resistance....They commenced savagely kicking the seated men in the abdomen and testicles. The injured men writhed and squealed in agony, which seemed to inflame the fury of the police....The police then began dragging the sitting men by the arms or feet, sometimes for a hundred yards, and throwing them into ditches.”

According to Wikipedia from which this quote is taken, “Miller later wrote that he went to the hospital where the wounded were being treated, and "counted 320 injured, many still insensible with fractured skulls, others writhing in agony from kicks in the testicles and stomach....Scores of the injured had received no treatment for hours and two had died."

There are several forms of courage, what we see here is without a doubt courage of the highest kind.  

What gives such extraordinary courage to ordinary people? What awakens in ordinary peddlers and street vendors, school teachers and office clerks, farmers and fishermen, carpenters and blacksmiths the courage to stand up against the mightiest empire the world has seen? It is one thing to be struck by the police lathi unawares. It is an altogether different thing to know that when you take the next step the lathi is going to come down heavily on you and break your skull causing unspeakable pain, to see this happening to the person right in front of you and yet take that step. While there are other reasons involved, the satyagrahis were able to rise to such superhuman levels of courage through they were afire with the cause for which they were fighting. 

In the Hindi movie Lagaan, we see ordinary village people who have never played cricket forming a team and beating the English who have played cricket all their life. The strength of the villagers: inspiration born of their cause.

The Hindi movie Chak De India shows us how, following the final speech by their coach, the members of the Indian hockey team forget their rivalries and personal goals and fight as a single team, again inspired by their cause of making India win.

What we find lacking in the Kaurava team under Duryodhana is this inspiring cause. And because of that, none of the leading men of his army is able to give himself entirely to his war, none of them is able to forget their personal rivalries or their personal goals.

And Duryodhana himself is weighed down by guilt. He knows full well his cause is not just, that his heart is full of bitterness and jealousy, that the ways he has been practicing all his life, right from mixing deadly poison in th food of a completely unsuspecting Bhima at Pramanakoti while they were both children, were  treacherous.

In the Udyoga Parva, sometime before the war becomes inevitable, Dhritarashtra gives a long speech in a Kuru meeting about who the rightful heir to the Hastinapura throne is and concludes it by telling Duryodhana: “I was not fortunate to have the right over the kingdom; how can you then desire to be king? You are not the son of a king and therefore the kingdom does not belong to you. You are coveting what does not belong to you and trying to snatch it away from its rightful owner. The noble Yudhishthira is the son of the king, and this kingdom has rightfully been inherited by him. He is now the lord of all of us Kauravas, and that generous one is the [rightful] ruler of this land.”

It is this inner ethical conflict that creates confusion in Duryodhana’s heart and undermines his confidence as he looks at the Pandava army assembled, to cover up which he starts talking, saying exactly what he should not be saying, like praising the opposition army and insulting his guru Drona who is one of his greatest warriors.

Unless your cause is right, you will have no inspiration. And unless your cause is right and you yourself are inspired, you will not be able to inspire others. This is a universal truth.

Bhishma understands what is going on in Duryodhana’s mind and does precisely what needs to be done to cheer him up and bring back some semblance of confidence in him.

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This ability to understand other people’s emotions is part of what is called emotional intelligence, which is intelligence in the true sense of the term because eighty to ninety percent of our success in life depends on emotional intelligence. The supreme example for emotional intelligence in the Mahabharata is, of course, Krishna. Each of his actions emerges from the brilliance of his emotional intelligence. And perhaps the worst case of emotional intelligence in the entire epic is Duryodhana who does exactly what should not be done most of the time in the epic, as he does at this moment, eventually leading not only his family and the Bharata clan into tragedy but all of India, sending this glorious land into a long age of darkness much longer than what Europe went into from around the fifth century of the Common Era.

Duryodhana was the most powerful man in Bharatavarsha when the war begins and he was the de facto emperor of the land, though officially he was not. Tragedy is what naturally results when the person at the helm of affairs in any organization lacks emotional intelligence – be it a war, a business, an industry or a nation.

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Thank you in advance for your comments and questions.

Living Bhagavad Gita 003: Arjuna Vishada Yoga

Short articles on the Bhagavad Gita for the busy, stressed working people of today. Discusses how to live the Gita in our daily life.

[Continued from Living Bhagavad Gita: 002]

Praise in the right place is praise; praise in the wrong place is an insult. Praise at the right time is praise; praise at the wrong time is an insult.      

In these opening verses of the Bhagavad Gita, Duryodhana addresses his guru Acharya Drona using the word dvijottama, a word that literally means the best of brahmanas and in common usage means a noble brahmana. Since Drona is neither the best of brahmanas nor a noble brahmana, this definitely is an insult, or at least sarcasm. Unless of course he is trying to flatter his guru, which the context shows he is not.

The definition of a brahmana handed down for thousands of years through the karna-parampara, the oral tradition, is: one who knows the Ultimate Reality, Brahman, or in other words someone who knows God: brahma janati iti brahmanah. By an extension of the definition, the term could also be used for one whose aim of life is knowing God and treads the path that leads to God realization by living a life of nivritti – of serenity, quietude, acceptance, forgiveness, patience and so on.

This is not the way Drona has been living his life, though the society in his days expected a brahmana to live such a life. Instead, he had chosen to be a teacher of the martial arts and is standing in the battlefield fully armed to fight a war and kill Duryodhana’s enemies. Though he is not the commander-in-chief of the Kaurava army yet, he would become that once Bhishma falls. That definitely is not being a noble brahmana.

The Buddha is just stating the traditional perception of who a brahmana is when he says in the Dhammapada:   

One who has laid down the rod

In dealing with beings, moving or still,

Who neither kills nor causes to kill,

Him I call a brahmin. [James Carter translation]

And again:

Whoever endures abuse, assault, and imprisonment

Without animosity,

And who has forbearance as one’s strength,

As one’s mighty army,

I call a brahmin. [Jack Kornfield translation]

Forget about being a dwijottama, Drona is hardly a dwija at all, unless you go by birth alone, though even then you are expected to live a certain lifestyle which Drona has given up a long time ago.  Some of the basic virtues by which a brahmana lives are lack of vengefulness, forgiveness, great self mastery, endurance and so on.

Consciously or unconsciously, Duryodhana is just adding another insult to the list of insults he heaps upon his guru in these opening verses. And by doing that, he is not promoting his cause in any way. The only way to understand his behavior is by assuming he has temporarily lost mastery over himself and his actions are not emerging from his conscious self but from his unconscious, as it happens with all of us in our moments of great fear or stress.

Duryodhana here demonstrates complete lack of emotional intelligence. He is not in touch with his own inner feelings and naturally has no mastery over these feelings. He has got into such situations numerous times in the past too, thus incurring the curse of rishis and the anger of his elders.

The Kuru prince has throughout his life been a slave to his emotions, something no leader can afford to become, either in earlier times or today. Atma jeyah sada rajna – one should always be a master of oneself, says the Mahabharata, discussing one of the first principles of leadership. And self mastery means mastery over one’s body, one’s senses and one’s mind. It includes mastery over the six enemies of man – kama, krodha, lobha, moha, mada and matsarya – lust, anger, greed, delusion, pride and intolerance..This is particularly true of a man in a leadership position, because he is responsible not only for himself but for others, sometimes tens of thousands of others, as in the case of an ancient king or the head of a modern corporate house, or the captain of a team of let’s say mountaineers, sportsmen, explorers, or whoever else.  One of the most striking examples of a sportsman losing mastery over himself and suffering great loss for himself, his team and his nation in modern times is that of the great Zinedine Zidane in the 2006 Football World Cup final in Berlin.

Why has Duryodhana lost mastery over himself? What could be the reason? Let’s look at his words to his guru Drona once again before we proceed further.

Among other things he tells the Acharya his own army is aparyapta and that of the Pandavas is paryapta. His words here are traditionally interpreted in two different ways. One, to mean his army is boundless and that of the Pandavas is limited. And two, just the opposite: his army is not sufficient to meet the challenge, and that of the Pandavas is adequate.

In my previous discussion [Living Bhagavad Gita: Short Essays 002], I had followed the first traditional interpretation of his words. Let’s now give his words the second meaning: that he feels his army is inadequate whereas that of the Pandavas is sufficient. Why does he say such a demoralizing thing when he and his people are standing in the battlefield ready to begin the war?

Well, Duryodhana has just counted the major warriors on both sides. While on the Pandava side he mentions several mighty warriors, he mentions only a few on his own side. Surprisingly he misses even such powerful warriors on his side as his brother Dusshasana, Bhurishava and Shalya, each one of whom is a truly mighty warrior, each capable of commanding large armies and causing great harm to the enemies. Shalya has in fact joined his side with an entire akshauhini of army and would eventually become the commander-in-chief of all Duryodhana’s forces after the death of Karna!

And he mentions Karna – who is not present on the spot to fight the war, has vowed not to enter the war field so long as Bhishma stands!

Has the presence of so many mighty warriors on the enemy side confused him? Has it made him doubt his chances of victory, lose his confidence?

A short while before the war was finally decided upon, Duryodhana was absolutely sure of his victory. When Krishna had gone to the Kuru assembly and negotiated peace, the language Duryodhana used throughout was the language of power. Every time Krshna would suggest a way to end the conflict and find peace, Duryodhana would ask: But who is more powerful, they or us? But all on a sudden, his sense of his own power, his army’s power, seems to have deserted him. What could be the reason?

Could it be that the sight of so many mighty maharathis on the Pandava side made him suspect his own power? It is possible that earlier Duryodhana had assumed that the Pandavas would not be able to procure the alliance of so many mighty warriors and such a huge army?

While I believe that is possible, there could be another important reason. Something related to his people’s commitment to him. 

Duryodhana has doubts about the commitment of his people to him and to his cause. In fact they have told him so openly several times in the past and he himself has accused them of being more sympathetic towards the Pandava cause than to his cause. This has lead to explosive scenes in the Kuru assembly numerous times in the past.

When he looks at the Pandava army, he sees people totally committed to one cause, all of them standing behind Yudhishthira as one. But on his own side he knows no one is really with him. No one, not totally. Except perhaps his brother Dusshasana, who was like his twin soul.

Let’s take a quick look at the important people on Duryodhana’s side, those he mentions and those he does not mention. The first person on his list is Acharya Drona himself. It is well known that Drona’s favourite disciple is Arjuna, loved so much by the Acharya that to make sure that he remains his best student he asks for the thumb of Ekalavya in gurudakshina, thus destroying Ekalavya as an archer forever and gaining for himself eternal notoriety as a guru. It is also equally clear that Drona has no love for Duryodhana. The acharya sees him as arrogant, impulsive, incompetent brat, a usurper of power.

It has been so from the beginning. In the crocodile test devised by him to check the devotion of his disciples, when a crocodile attacks Drona, it was Arjuna who saved him risking his own life while Duryodhana watched on helplessly. While Duryodhana failed to give the guru dakshina Drona wanted in the form of Drupada, captured, bound and brought to him, Duryodhana failed to do that and it was the Pandavas, led by Arjuna, who did it. Arjuna repeatedly proves his total devotion not only to his guru but also to learning, even defeating his guru in his cunning, unethical schemes to stop him from becoming his best disciple. Every teacher would love such a disciple.

Drona has repeatedly said that Duryodhana has neither any right over the Kuru crown nor the ethical requirements to wear it. The acharya certainly has no commitment to Duryodhana. Just before the war starts, as Yudhishthira comes to Drona seeking his blessings in the war and requesting him to join his side, Drona publicly announces he is on Duryodhana’s side only because of his financial indebtedness to him. Arthasya dasah – a slave to his wealth, that is how Drona describes himself then.

Kripa’s attitude in everything, including his commitment to Duryodhna, is the same as that of his brother-in-law Drona. Drona’s son Ashwatthama is close to Duryodhana as a friend, though he has frequently and bluntly questioned Duryodhana’s unethical ways.

It is too well known that Bhishma has no commitment to Duryodhana. Nor has Shalya, not mentioned here by Duryodhana, who is really Pandu’s wife Madri’s brother and thus an uncle of the Pandavas, who was waylaid and tricked to join the Kaurava side while he was on his way to join the Pandava side. His heart is with the Pandavas.

Vikarna, a younger brother of Duryodhana, is the only one who shows the courage to question what was being done in the Dice Hall to Draupadi, apart from Vidura. Though he fights for Duryodhana because they are brothers, his heart is not with him.

And Karna? His heart is definitely not with Duryodhana in this war, as he himself says openly to Krishna, because he considers Duryodhana ethically unfit to become king. When Krishna offers Karna the kingdom and asks him to join the Pandavas who are actually his brothers, Karna tells him he knows that and asks Krishna not to give him the kingdom because if it is given to him, out of his friendship with Duryodhana he would give it to him, and he does not deserve it, he is unfit to become king. True, Duryodhana counts on him heavily and perhaps believes he is with him fully, but he knows the fact that because of a quarrel with Bhishma, he would not be joining his side to fight the war so long as Bhishma stands. He may not know of the promise Karna has made to his mother not to kill any of her sons except Arjuana, but he certainly knows that Karna has put his own ego above Duryodhana’s interests by taking the decision to keep away from the war so long as Bhishma fights.             

Is there any wonder then if Duryodhana is shaken as he looks at both the sides as the war is about to start? He knows that wars are not won by skilled people, but by skilled people with commitment. A successful leader is he who is able to generate that commitment in people whether it is in the Mahabharata war, in any other war, or in a modern corporate house, a political party, an election, or whatever ‘battle’ it is. People contribute best to a cause when their heart in it.

Duryodhana knows he is a failure as a leader. His guide all his life has been Shakuni whereas the Pandavas have Krishna with them to give them strength and to show them their path. He also knows he does not have even the blessings of his own mother for this war in which she considers him on the side of adharma! She refuses to bless him as he goes to her seeking her blessings as he starts out.  As he bends and touches her feet, instead of the conventional vijayi bhava, be victorious, what she says is yato dharmah tato jayah – Victory will be where dharma is!  

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Rather than asking Duryodhana to shut up, Bhishma in a tactically brilliant act blows his powerful conch to stop Duryodhana’s babbling and to announce the war.  He has openly criticized Duryodhana all his life but does not want to do that again at this juncture and in front of all these people!

tasya sanjanayan harsham kuruvriddhah pitaamahah

simhanaadam vinadyocchaih shankham dadhmau prataapavaan // BG 1.12 //

Then Bhishma, the aged Kuru grandfather, roared like a lion and blew a powerful blast on his conch making Duryodhana’s heart leap with joy.

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Thank you in advance for your comments and questions!

Draupadi: The Day of the Jackals 3

Continued from …2

Krishnaa could not believe this was happening. She the sacrifice-born princess, the pet of King Drupada, the adored sister of Shikhandin and Dhrishtadyumna, the darling of the entire Panchala, the wife of the five Pandava brothers, the queen of Indraprastha, has been brought into an assembly of kings and nobles dragged by her hair. She who had faced a similar assembly of men only once before in her life during her swayamvara, was now in the middle of these nobles, while in her monthly period, clad in one cloth. And Dushshasana was pulling even that cloth away from her!

Was it really happening? Or was this all a mere hallucination? Was this a nightmare from which she will soon wake up to find that nothing has changed, everything was as before, that she was still the queen of Indraprastha, that her husbands were still masters of a rich and powerful kingdom, that the dice game had never happened?

But she knew the answer. Dushshasana’s powerful hands were pulling her cloth away from her. Duryodhana and Karna were laughing in uncontrollable mirth.

“Slave, slave!” Words that horrified her. “Whore, whore!” Words that were like whiplashes on bare flesh.

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She held the cloth tightly to herself.

Her eyes were roving mad in despair. Filled with mortal dread she looked frantically all around. This was worse than death. Yes, she would have preferred to die, rather than being denuded in this assembly, being subjected to what they were doing to her.
But, no. She was not going to give up. She was not going to lose to brute force, to insolent might. She was a kshatrani. Born to fight. Born to win. She doesn’t give up life’s battles.

And there was unfinished work left. Dushshasana will have to pay – pay with his life for what he was doing to her. Duryodhana will have to pay. Karna will have to pay.

Bhishma will have to pay and Drona will have to pay. Pay with their lives. And the blind Dhritarashtra will have to pay – with the loss of the lives of all he loved. “Has the wager been won?” he had asked again and again, every time something new was wagered. He too will have to pay.

“Slave, whore,” shouted Dushshasana as he tried to free her cloth from her hands that were clasping it to herself.

She held on with all her might. Looking once again into the eyes of the men in the assembly. Her husbands. Bhishma. Drona. Others.

Her eyes met no other eyes. Except the eyes of Dushshasana, Duryodhana and Karna. Lust filled eyes. Perverted eyes. Mad eyes. Mocking eyes. Eyes that had gone insane with depravity. Eyes that exulted in their sheer power over her.

And she knew no help was coming.

The world had begun to reel. Everything was moving in a haze, in an incredibly fast haze. The whole world was going round and round. And she was finding it more and more difficult to stand on her feet.

She held the cloth all the more tightly to herself. Her whole past was unrolling before her as in a fast drama, as before the eyes of a dying man. She saw her father, her brothers…

And then from among the faces one face became clear. Another dark face like hers. A handsome face. An irresistibly beautiful face. A face full of power. A face untouched by wickedness, untouched by corruption, untouched by weaknesses. A face that made promises. Untold promises. Promises that were whispered direct to your heart.

Promises that were made directly to your soul.

Those inviting, irresistible eyes. Eyes from which the smile never seemed to leave. Eyes that held you by their magnetic power. Eyes that could be flowers in one moment and diamonds in the other. Eyes that hid immense power. Eyes that could command the very elements of the earth.

The eyes of a yogeshwara.

A man who shared her name. And a million other things with her.

And she surrendered to that man. Surrendered to his strength. Surrendered to his power. Surrendered to his promises.

And immediately felt herself letting go. Felt herself relaxing. Felt a sense of relaxation flooding her. Felt herself surrendering to that relaxation.

Felt power surging through her. Power she knew was enough to make any enemy bend his knees. Power she knew was enough to make any enemy powerless.

It was a different kind of power. Not the kind of power that Dushshasana was exerting over her. Not even the kind of power that Bhima possessed. But a different kind of power. A very different kind of power. A totally different kind of power.

A power that won victories without fighting a battle.

She felt an ecstasy filling her. A rapture surging through her. Felt as though she was being born afresh. Coming into being, coming into existence, for the first time.
Suddenly the word alive had a different meaning. Suddenly she knew what it was to live.

Perhaps she had felt this before. A long time ago. She could not remember when but she was sure she had felt this before. Known this feeling before. This sense of being alive. Just alive. Being one with life. One with the world. One with existence.

The oceans were not different from her. The sky and the sun and the moon and the stars were not different from her. The mountains were not different from her. And the trees and shrubs and the grass were not different from her. The animals and the fishes and the trillion creatures were not different from her. They all shared a common existence with her.

She was their existence.

The sleepy infant suckling serenely at its mother’s breast as the young mother rested in a contented ecstasy – it was she.

The little village girl feeling the thrill of the first drop of rain on her as she slowly whirls around in the rain – it was she.

The tender young woman wearing that thin white cloth and bathing under the waterfall – it was she.

She was the beautiful princess who parted the curtains of her palanquin to give a smile to the little fawn who came gambolling and stood watching some distance.

She was the tall young man with a wiry body sleeping contentedly in his boat as it floated serenely down the Ganga.

She was the rapturous young woman in her young lover’s strong arms swooning in the power of their passion.

She was the small child standing on her father’s feet and laughing in wild pleasure as he tossed her up and down.

She was the sole pink bud on the bank of the mountain lake standing in still ecstasy as the butterfly hovered over it. She was the green parrot with the red beak perched on that dry tree while rain clouds moved serenely in the distance. She was the heady fragrance of burning camphor that filled the tiny shrine on the mountain slope, the intoxicating scent of lemon blossoms in the little garden in the heart of the valley. She was the haunting music of the flute that filled the valley.

And then she suddenly realized it – that smiling dark face, those irresistible eyes, they were hers.

It was she who had been carried in a basket across the Yamuna that storm-torn night! It was she who had stolen fresh butter from Yashoda’s pots in Vraja! It was she who had killed Putana, who had subdued Kaliya, who had played on her flute on the banks of the Yamuna maddening all of Vraja, who had danced with the cowherd girls in Vrindavana all night long. It was she who had killed Kansa, Shishupala.

She felt the power of the Sudarshana in her hand.

She had the power to annihilate. And she had the power to create. Unmesha-nimishotpanna-vipanna-bhuvanavali. As she opened her eyes, universes came into being, and as she closed them they dissolved back into her.

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And then the tumult reached her. Excited, ecstatic voices were shouting all around her. There seemed to be a million voices. All filled with thrill, with wonder, with disbelief.

What were they shouting?

And then she heard it.

“A miracle! Look, a miracle! A miracle has happened!”

She slowly opened her eyes.

She had no idea when she had closed them.

She was still in the hall, she found.

Instantly she clutched her cloth to herself.

When had she let go of it?

But Dushshasana was no more pulling it away!

Where is he?

She looked around.

Lying all around her was a huge, huge pile of clothes. Clothes in myriad hews. Fine clothes. Beautiful clothes. Endless clothes. All around her. And she was standing in the middle of it all. Still clad in her single piece of cloth.

And at her feet sat Dushshasana. Tired, sweating, his eyes wild with another kindness of madness. The madness of incomprehension. And the fury of helplessness.
Govinda had come to her! Her Govinda! Her Krishna!

Closing her eyes, she once again lost herself in the ecstasy of it.

And then, opening her eyes, she stepped out of the pile of clothes.

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“Get up, Dusshasana! Take the slave Krishnaa to the inner apartments!” It was Karna’s voice.

She couldn’t believe it! They were not finished with her yet!

“Wait,” Krishnaa said as Dushshasana began to pull her towards the door of the hall.
“There is a duty I have to perform to this august assembly, to the elders here. I could not do it when I came here first. I know the fault was not entirely mine. For I was in no condition to do it then.”

Dushshasana let go of Krishnaa. Clad in her soiled cloth, Draupadi stood erect and proud before the assembly of kings and elders. Her eyes were serene. Clad in that one piece of soiled cloth, she still looked an embodiment of poise and dignity, of feminine beauty and grace.

“Elders of the assembly,” she addressed them. “I grew up not seen even by the sun and the wind. Only once have I come before an assembly like this. On the occasion of my swayamvara. For that reason, forgive me my omission. I now bow before you deeply. Please accept my regards.”

There was silence in the hall.

“Having done that, I now ask you once again. Am I a slave or not? You must answer me this question.”

Seeing that no one was responding to her question, Bhishma stood up. In voice that was steady and clear, he spoke, praising Draupadi’s conduct. This is how a princess should be, he said. A princess even in the midst of the worst crisis in her life. Never losing her dignity, never losing her poise, her grace, even in the middle of unspeakably humiliating circumstances. “Daughter,” he said, “You make your father proud. You make your mother proud. You make me proud – for you belong to my family.”

Draupadi acknowledged him.

“As for your question,” he continued, “there is only one person here fully qualified to answer it. Yudhisthira. Let him answer it.”

As Bhishma sat down, the assembly waited for Yudhisthira to speak. Yudhishthira sat with his head hanging low, without a word.

An infuriated Bhima shouted: “Get me some fire, Sahadeva. I shall burn these accursed hands of Yudhishthira.”

Karna’s triunmphant laughter answered Bhima’s call.

Bhima had never in his life raised his voice against Yudhishthira, never spoken a word against him.

And when no response came from Yudhishthira, Duryodhana spoke.

“The princess of Panchala shall be freed if the four brothers say that Yudhisthira is not their master…or let Yudhisthira himself say he is not your lord, and I shall free you this very instant.”

The entire assembly applauded Duryodhana.

And yet Yudhisthira spoke not a word.

Instead it was the anger-filled, fury-filled, helplessness-filled words of Bhima that the assembly heard. “Yudhisthira is our lord and master,” said Bhima. “Had it not been so, remember, not one of the Dhartarashtras would have been alive today. You owe your life, every breath of it, to the fact that Yudhisthira is our lord.”

Bhimasena is not known for his ability to control himself. Not usually.

And then Karna spoke again. He spoke words filled with arrogance, with contempt, words that ill-fitted that august assembly.

Or maybe, perfectly befitting that assembly that had silently, without a word of protest, witnessed the attempt of a man to denude a helpless woman in their midst.

“Krishnaa Draupadi, the sons of Dhritarashtra are your masters now – no more the Pandavas. Go you to their inner apartments. Go you to the quarters of the slaves. And I also ask you to choose one of the Kauravas as your husbands. A slave belongs to the household to which she is bound. Her masters are the masters of that house. The vows of marriage are not for a slave. She chooses a man to father children in her as and when the need arises. Choose you a new husband now. I recommend all the Kauravas to you. All of them are physically strong, well built, and masters of themselves. What more does a slave woman need? Go ahead and choose any one of them to mate with and beget children.”

Duryodhana laughed uproariously at these words. Laughing still, he once again asked Yudhisthira to decide once for all whether Draupadi was won by him or not. And then, still laughing, he parted his clothes before the disbelieving eyes of the whole assembly and revealed his left thigh. His eyes holding Krishnaa’s eyes steadily, he struck at it loudly, repeatedly.

Struck thus, Duryodhana’s thigh, stout and strong, full of powerful muscles, looking like a pillar cast from iron, produced sounds like that of the thunder when rain cloud met rain cloud.

With utter disregard for all morality, for all values, Duryodhana had done the unthinkable in that assembly of elders. Showing his left thigh, the place for a wife or a mistress or a whore, a woman of pleasure, offering it publicly to a woman. With utter disregard to all laws of courtesy, to all decency.

To his own sister-in-law. To Krishnaa.

Bhima jumped up from his seat at this. His eyes emitted fire. His whole body trembled at this insult to Draupadi, insult to all of them. “For this act of yours, Duryodhana, for this ugly, horrid act of yours, I shall break that thigh of yours in battle. Hear me, all you who are assembled here, here me gods in heaven, hear me my ancestors – if I do not do that, let the worlds that are mine after death, be denied to me for ever.”

Dushshasana caught Krishnaa by her hair once again. And suddenly she turned to him in fury. She wanted to strike him, strike him down like lightning strikes down a mighty tree. In front of all the assembly. And she knew for certain she could do that. She knew she had the power to do that in herself. She felt power coursing through her.

But instead she pulled her hair free from his hand. Holding it up in her hands, Krishnaa spoke: “This hair of mine touched by this wretch shall from now remain open until the day it is smeared with living blood from the heart of this beast. This I vow by everything that I hold sacred.”

Her vow was followed by Bhima’s booming voice. “And I vow that I shall pluck off that evil arm that dragged Krishnaa by her hair. And I vow that I shall tear open the wicked heart of this monster and drink his living blood. If I do not, may the worlds of my ancestors be forever denied to me.”

And Krishnaa saw it clearly then. Dead bodies lay strewn in their thousands in a vast field. And in the middle of it all was the living, pulsating body of Dushshasana, lying on its back. And Bhima kept his foot over his body, plucked off his right arm and flung it away, roaring like a lion. Then he plunged his sword into that evil heart. Tearing open that chest, Bhima gathered blood from that wicked heart and raising his palms up, drank that blood. And then, not content, she saw him chop off the head of the monster in a single stroke and raise the severed head in the air. As blood flowed into his mouth, Vrikodara’s roar of pleasure and triumph terrified the thousands of onlookers, making them flee in terror.

And then the vision changed. The battlefield was the same, the multitudes of dead bodies were the same and Dushshasana’s body was there. But it was not Bhima who had his leg over its chest – it was she. She was standing with her left leg on Dusshasana’s chest. Her head was held high, in triumph and in her hand was a mighty trident. Fire emanated from her eyes – from all three of them. Her nostrils flared in exhilaration as she breathed in deeply the smell of blood. Blood was flowing like rivulets in the field.

The sound of beejamantras filled the air…. shreem…hreem… kreem… aim… kleem…
The mantras came to her from the ten directions, chanted by a million voices, in which past, present and future mingled, the voices of gods mingled with the voices of men and women. The seven matrikas and the sixty-four yoginis sang her praises.

Her hair danced in the fierce wind, like dark flames, like a thousand black cobras. She felt someone behind her. Two hands were gathering her hair together and smearing blood on it. Hot blood. Sweet smelling blood. Intoxicating blood. Dushshasana’s blood.
The hands began braiding her hair with infinite love, with infinite tenderness.
Were those Bhima’s hands? They had to be.

But suddenly she was sure they were not.

She had known those hands more intimately than she has known Bhima’s hands, than any other hands.

And then she knew. Those were hands she had known through a thousand births.

The hands of someone who had been her companion through ages.

She couldn’t mistake the hands of her Govinda.

O0O

Vidura’s voice brought her back to the reality of the Dice Hall. In another vain attempt, he got up once more and declared that he considered Draupadi not won.

No one deemed it necessary to respond to Vidura’s words.

And then Arjuna spoke. He was talking to the assembly for the first time on that evil day.
His words were brief and simple. He turned the question over to the Kauravas. “Let the Kauravas decide this matter,” he submitted to the assembly.

Krishnaa was shocked beyond words. Arjuna! Her Arjuna! He had deserted her! It is as though he wanted to get it all over with, one way or another. As though Krishnaa did not matter to him. As though Krishnaa’s fate did not interest him any more! Let the Kauravas decide this matter!

Ugly words had been spoken in that assembly on that day. Krishnaa had been called a slave. Krishnaa had been called a whore. Krishnaa had been asked to go to the slave quarters to serve her new masters as a menial. Krishnaa had been asked to choose a man to mate with to beget children.

Evil words. Horrible words. Ugly, loathsome words.

But it is doubtful if any of those words had hurt her as deeply as these words of Arjuna.
Ugly deeds had been done in that assembly on that day. Like a common street gambler, a king had gambled away everything that was his in that assembly. In an act that even a street gambler does not do, that king, famed for his virtues, had wagered his brothers one after the other and lost them. And then, after wagering and losing himself, he had proceeded to wager his own wife! An act the vilest of men would be more reluctant to do than Yudhisthira had been to do. She too had been lost and declared, like the others, a slave to the Kauravas. She had been dragged out of her inner apartments where she was spending the days of her monthly period, and caught by her hair, had been dragged into the august assembly of the Kauravas, clad in a single cloth as the custom for a woman in her monthly season decreed. And, while the whole assembly watched, while her elders watched, while her husbands watched, an attempt was made to deprive her of her cloth and make her stand naked in the middle of that assembly. And then a man, again the middle of that assembly, in the presence of all of those people, in the brazen arrogance of his just won absolute power, contemptuous of all norms of decent behaviour, had removed his cloth to reveal his naked left thigh and invited her, his sister-in-law, to it – shaming her for ever.

Shocking deeds. Horrible deeds. Unheard of deeds in any civilized society.

But it is doubtful if any of these deeds had affected the princess of Panchala as deeply as this desertion by her favorite husband, the man who was among the five the closest to her heart, the man who had won her, won her body, her heart and her soul, in that swayamvara hall, the youth who had mesmerized her by his presence, by his competence, by his self-assurance, by his fearlessness, the man who was more truly her husband than any other.

Arjuna had deserted her.

A dark gloom rose up from the inner depths of Krishnaa. From that part of her being closest to the springs of life. From depths even she did not know existed. Deep, abysmal gloom rose up from those depths and spread to envelop her entire being. Clouding her senses, her mind, her heart, her entire being. Suffocating her senses, her mind, her heart, her entire being. Making her unable to breathe. Making her shiver in despair. In deep, indescribable pain. In pain so deep, no sound could express it. Pain so deep that silence, choking, smothering, enervating silence, silence that crushed her like a million tons of metal, alone could express it. Pain threatened to extinguish her.

Krishnaa surrendered to that silence.

And as she did so, the first howl of a distant jackal was heard in the Dice Hall. A howl of agony. A howl that tore at your heart with its immeasurable sadness. A howl that augured inauspiciousness. A howl that announced doom.

And then another, and another, and another. Soon a multitude of jackals were howling together, rending the skies with their agony. An endless multitude. Thousands upon thousands of jackals.

Which were joined by a hundred thousand donkeys braying together. In agony. In fathomless sadness.

And then a million wolves joined them. A million dogs. A million hyenas. A million owls. A million crows. A million vultures.

Filling the skies. Rending the skies.

And they heard a dissonance of eerie, bloodcurdling sounds joining these. Evil, horrible, monstrous sounds from another world, portending unspeakable evil. Cries of ghosts, cries of ghouls. Cries of restless souls wandering without a refuge for eternity in timeless dimensions. Cries of evil spirits. Cries of the souls of unborn babies choked to death in their mothers’ wombs. Cries of the souls of women who died without a sip of water in the middle of endless travails, trying to give birth to the babies in their wombs.

Cries from the depths of hell. Cries of the tortured souls from the many hells men feared to call by their names.

A million bats, dark, huge, eerie, risen from the depths of hell, covered the skies.

A thick horrid, obnoxious smell spread in the atmosphere of Hastinapura. A fetid stench as foul as people had never smelt.

The smell of death. The smell of rotting flesh.

The entire Hastinapura had come out of their homes.

They had never been witness to more inauspiciousness, to more horrible auguries. Hastinapura has suddenly turned hot. Hot like the womb of one of the horrible hells.
The cries of men and women, of children, multitudes and multitudes of them, joined the tumult.

There was deathly stillness In the Dice Hall.

O0O

And in the middle of that stillness, Dhritarashtra, tottering in his blindness, stood up, seeking the support of Sanjaya. His powerful body was bathed in perspiration.
“Daughter Krishnaa,” he stuttered, “forgive the Kauravas. Forgive my sons. They are evil. They were born evil and to an evil end they will come. I just wanted to see how far my sons would go in evil. And I see there is no end to their wickedness. Let not the Kurus come to an end through your wrath. Please forgive us for the humiliation you have been put through. You have made me proud by your conduct. I am pleased with you. Please ask for a boon – I want to give you a boon.”

It was a long time before Krishnaa could speak. When she spoke, she said these few words, “if you want to give me a boon, free King Yudhisthira from slavery. I do not want the king’s son to be laughed at by his friends, calling him a slave.”

“Let it be so. But I am not satisfied. Ask for another boon, Krishnaa.”

“I ask that my four other husbands be freed, with their weapons and their chariots.”

“So be it, Krishnaa. I free them all. And I free all their wealth. They can go back to Indraprastha with all that belonged to them. But ask for yet another boon. My heart is still not satisfied.”

“No, king, not another one, thank you. A kshatrani is entitled to ask for two boons. And I have asked for them. In any case, with my husbands freed, with their weapons and chariots, I do not need any other boon.”

Krishnaa bowed to the elders and walked towards her husbands.

The assembly exploded in a deafening explosion of approval.

O0O

Outside, the tumult had ended.

Peace had come back to Hastinapura.

The sky had turned diaphanous.

For the time being, at least.

O0O

Draupadi: The Day of the Jackals 2

Continued from …1

Her women brought her news of what was happening in the dice hall.

Shakuni was playing on behalf of Duryodhana. Yudhisthira had stated this was against the rules of the dice but had agreed to play anyway.

And then Yudhisthira had lost the first wager: A necklace made of rare pearls from the depths of the sea. The very best of Yudhishthira’s necklaces.

And then he had lost the second wager: His inexhaustible treasury of gold and silver, countless boxes, each filled with a thousand gold coins.

And then he had lost the third wager: His royal chariot, equal to a thousand chariots, which runs with the speed of the wind, producing a roar like that of a sea in fury, drawn by eight snow-white horses, selected from among the very best in the world.

And then a fourth wager: A hundred thousand young, beautiful serving girls, all in their early youth, each decked in gold and other ornaments, each a mistress of the sixty-four arts that please men.

And then a hundred thousand young serving men…then a thousand mighty elephants with gold girdles and ornaments…a thousand special chariots with gold flagpoles…all the peerless Gandharva, Tittiri and Kalmasha steeds Arjuna had won from Chitraratha…ten thousand more chariots…sixty thousand selected soldiers…wealth in millions and trillions…countless cows, bulls, horses, goat, sheep…all his lands, cities, the whole country, all his subjects…the ornaments on his brothers…

And then he had said: “I now wager my Sahadeva.”

And lost him.

And then he had said: “I now wager my Nakula.”

And lost him.

And then he had said: “I now wager my Arjuna.”

And lost him.

And then he had said: “I now wager my Vrikodara.”

And lost him.

And then he had wagered himself.

And lost himself.

“I have nothing more left to wager,” he had said.

“Of course you have,” Shakuni had reminded him. ”You have the beautiful princess of Panchala, your wife.”

And he had wagered her.

Yudhisthira had wagered his wife Krishnaa Draupadi in the game of dice.

The kings who had been specially invited for the game as guests were in utter shock. The elders of the Kurus and the acharyas were in utter shock. ”Shame, shame,” they muttered.

Then silence prevailed in the assembly. The whole assembly sat in silence, stunned, stupified. Even the Dhartarashtras, Duryodhana and his brothers and his friend Karna, were silent. Even they could not believe this had happened.

The world seemed to have come to a shocked silence.

Then the silence was broken by the excited, whispering voice of Dhritarashtra. He was asking the same question he had asked each time Yudhisthira had wagered something.
“Has the wager been won yet?”

And then the sound of the dice falling was heard, followed by the booming voice of Shakuni declaring once again, “Lo, I have won it.”

O0O

When the old pratihari came, Krishnaa was ready.

She hadn’t expected this.

She had expected Yudhisthira to lose all his wealth and prepared herself to it. She had expected Yudhisthira to lose all their possessions and prepared herself to it. She had expected Yudhisthira to lose their kingdom and prepared herself to it.

But she hadn’t expected her husband to wager his brothers. She hadn’t expected him to wager himself.

And she hadn’t expected him to wager her.

But still she was ready.

Her world had collapsed completely around her. She had been beaten. Beaten beyond her wildest fears. She hadn’t imagined even in her worst nightmares what Yudhisthira had done to her.

But she was going to maintain her dignity to the end. She the sacrifice-born daughter of king Drupada, the wedded wife of the five Pandavas, was going to keep her dignity to the end.

She was ready.

“Go back and ask them if I was wagered before my husband lost himself or after that,” she told him.

“Ask the slave to come here and ask the question herself,” came the reply.

“Go and ask the gambler if he lost me before he himself became a slave or after it.” She sent the pratihari back again.

O0O

And then Dushshasana himself came.

There was intoxication in his eyes – the intoxication of victory. There was rapture in his eyes – the rapture of victory.

And there were other feelings in them. Feelings that terrified her. Feelings that sent shivers down her spine. Feelings that drained all energy away from her body.

Lust. Raging lust. Madness. Raving madness. Insanity. Evil. Vicious evil. Depravity.

Degeneracy. Hunger. Shameless, depthless, insane, fiendish hunger.

His were eyes from the dark depths of hell where nothing was sacred, nothing was forbidden.

Terrified she joined her palms before her and pleaded.

Those palms had never before been joined together in abject misery. They had never been joined together like this except in prayer to the almighty and in homage to the elders.

Terrified, she joined her palms together and pleaded to be left alone. And in her agony, in her utter helplessness, mentioned the unmentionable. “I am in my season,” she confessed. “See, I am clad in a single piece of cloth.”

“Season or no season, clad in a single piece of cloth or no cloth at all, I’m taking you to the hall,” she heard the booming voice declaring.

Terrified she turned around and fled. Fled towards the chambers in which lived the other ladies, the ladies of Dhritarashtra’s household.

She heard the sound of running feet behind her and fled like a streak of lightning – a streak of sparkling, dark lightning.

Primal fear gave her wings. That most ancient of a woman’s fears.

But then a powerful hand caught her. Caught her by her hair trailing behind her and pulled her and dragged her towards the door. And then across the door. And across corridors. And across open spaces. While she fought and pleaded. While she begged and screamed. While she tried to hold to herself her cloth that was slipping away again and again.

The wind was still again. Dark clouds had covered the sky. A shocked sun had disappeared from the firmament. Darkness covered the earth – sinister darkness.

And the powerful man dragged the helpless woman on, holding her by her hair.

O0O

She was in the hall now. She looked at her husbands.

There was terror in her eyes. There was pleading in her eyes. And there was fire in her eyes.

Not one of the five pairs of eyes faced hers.

Not one word was spoken by any of the five mighty men she had wedded in the five ceremonies that were performed on five successive days in Kampilya, with fire as their witness.

Kshatta’s was the only voice of protest. He was asked to keep quiet or get out.

“Slave, slave,” shouted Dushshasana as he began dragging her again towards the slave quarters.

“The ways of dharma are too subtle,” said Bhishma in a voice which she noticed was quaking for the first time. “I am not able to decide what is right and what is wrong.”
Krishnaa’s soul wept.

And her mind revolted. Reviled. Subtle are the ways of dharma indeed! A woman is brought dragged by her hair into the middle of that august assembly and for Bhishma subtle are the ways of dharma.

For this, Grandfather, you shall pay with your life!

It doesn’t matter that woman is a princess whose face even the sun and the moon hadn’t seen before. It does not matter that the only occasion that woman has been seen by men other than her husband was on the day she stood up in her swayamvara hall to choose a husband for herself. It does not matter that that woman is in her monthly period and clad in a single piece of cloth. It does not matter if that woman is your own vadhu, a bride of the Bharatas, and you are the senior-most Bharata present here. It does not matter she is your granddaughter-in-law. It does not matter that her own husbands and their cousins are sitting and watching, apart from invited kings from several countries.

Let her be just a woman. Any woman. And a man had brought her dragging her by her hair into the middle of the assembly. A man was forcing his will upon a woman in public.

You are a kshatriya.

And you don’t know what dharma is! You don’t know your dharma!

You don’t know if she is a slave or not. So you don’t know your dharma!

What if she is a slave? What then?

Isn’t your dharma clear even if she were a slave?

For this, Grandfather, son of Shantanu, you shall pay with your life.

And all posterity will call you a coward.

A confused, old, helpless coward, afraid of his own evil grandson.

Krishnaa looked at Acharya Drona and the great guru avoided her eyes. For he knew what his dharma was and yet did not have the courage to stand up for it.

For this cowardice of yours, great acharya, you shall pay with your life.

Krishnaa looked at Acharya Kripa and the acharya sat with his eyes fixed at his feet. For he too was but a coward deep in his heart and dared not to speak. Krishnaa’s eyes would enter his soul through his eyes and find the coward hiding there, Kripa knew.

One by one Krishnaa’s eyes sought the eyes of all the elders in the assembly and none had the courage to face the eyes of this pleading, innocent woman who was being humiliated by a bunch of wicked men in the middle of that august assembly. Cowards they all were – one and all.

It was then that the voice of justice spoke through a totally unexpected mouth – that of Vikarna, a younder brother of Duryodhana’s. Vikarna declared what was going on was evil and Draupadi was not a slave since she was wagered after Yudhisthira had lost himself.

The sabha applauded him.

But Karna called him a child and asked him to sit down, his mouth shut. When elders spoke children had no right to open their mouths.
B
ut where elders kept their mouths shut? This was not a case of elders speaking, but of elders keeping their mouths shut. Vikarna had spoken because none of the elders had responded to the pleadings of Krishnaa.

“The woman standing in our midst is a whore,” thundered Karna.

This was the most evil day in Karna’s life. Born noble, Karna was denied the privileges of birth and lineage. Fate had snatched them away from him. Yet he had triumphed over fate by his nobility, by his courage, by his generosity, by his mastery of archery. The whole world said this son of a charioteer was equal to Arjuna himself in his skill of archery, equal to Shibi in charity, the Sun himself in glory, and an equal to Indra in fearlessness. Yet today his behavior had sunk below the level of the common man on the street, below the level of a common drunkard watching a drunken squabble on the street. Today Karna was without nobility, without charity, without greatness. He had sunken into the lowest dust. There was not a noble bone in him today, no redeeming feature in his behavior. For what he was doing today, his ancestors shall forever be ashamed of him.

For his sins today, this friend of Duryodhana shall pay with his life.

For this, Karna, you will pay with your life.

“That woman there is a whore, a common whore,” declared Karna pointing his beautiful finger at Krishnaa. “She is a whore because she sleeps with five men. And any woman who sleeps with five men is a common whore.”

The Dice Hall was stunned.

“And I say, Dushshasana, take away even that single cloth she is wearing. For, she doesn’t deserve it. A slave has no claims to modesty. A whore has no claims to modesty either. And she is both a slave and a whore.”

The Dice hall couldn’t believe what it was hearing.

Krishnaa felt she could reach out and touch the hatred that filled the hall. It was like a physical presence. Evil, noxious, lethal, sinister, fiendish. The intensity of it sent shivers through her.

“Why the hesitation, Dushshasana?” roared Karna again. “Take that common whore’s cloth away. Denude that new slave of ours right here in the assembly.

The price for your words today, Karna, shall be death and eternal shame for you.

Dushshasana caught hold of Draupadi’s cloth and started pulling at it.

O0O

Continued …3

Draupadi: The Day of the Jackals

Her husband has been invited to a game of dice in Hastinapura. Invited by Uncle Dhritarashtra and his sons.

He knows their hearts are full of poison. They have recently gone back after spending time in Indraprastha where a glorious rajasuya had just been concluded. Duryodhana had stayed back along with his uncle Shakuni for a few days after the sacrifice was over. Yudhishthira had invited them to.

Not entirely out of charity, she knew, for, there was a purpose in Yudhishthira’s heart when he had invited them to stay back – insisted on it, rather.

Yudhishthira was proud. Proud of the wealth he had been able to acquire in a short while. Proud of the sabha hall he had Maya build for him. Proud of the tributes and gifts that had poured in ceaselessly from all corners of the earth. Proud of the homage kings from all over the world had paid him. Proud of the loyalty of his brothers. Proud of his beautiful wife Krishnaa. Proud of the gifts he had paid to the Brahmins. And proud of the feast he has been offering as part of the rajasuya.

Eighty-eight thousand snatakas had stayed with him during the entire period of the rajasuya and he had given each thirty serving women. Ten thousand other Brahmins were served their meals in plates of pure gold at the palace every day.

The list of kings who had come with gifts from every part of Aryavarta was endless. And those from beyond its borders who had either come in person or sent gifts included the Yavanas, the Romakas, the Chinas, the Shakas, the Vikings and others from across the oceans. Queues of kings who waited at the palace gates stretched for miles. Each had come with carts and elephants loaded with gifts.

The gifts included endless quantities of jewels, gold, gems, other precious stones…elephants, camels, horses, cows, donkeys, sheep… swords, scimitars, hatchets, battle axes, daggers, maces, bows and arrows…chariots, carts, other vehicles…hides of rare animals, priceless blankets inlaid with gold, rare silk…

The gift of the kings from the coastal regions was thousands of exquisite young girls from the Karpasika country, all slender-waisted, of luxuriant hair, decked in gold.

It was acknowledged openly: Yudhishthira’s wealth exceeded that of the Himalayas, the oceans, mines of gold and precious jewels and other regions abounding in wealth.

Yudhishthira was basking in glory. Duryodhana had already seen it during the rajasuya. But that was not enough for Yudhishthira. He wanted him to stay back and see it all for a while more. Be devastated by it.

True, perhaps Yudhishthira did not know this was the reason why he had requested his cousin and his uncle to stay back. Perhaps this was a secret hidden deep in his heart. Perhaps he thought he was just doing what he should do – the closest of relatives and friends were always asked to stay back for a few days more after the festivities were over. That was all he was doing.

But Draupadi could see the real reason clearly. After all, she was his wife. And knew him as no one else did. Knew him more thoroughly than his brothers knew. Knew him more thoroughly than perhaps even he himself knew. Knew him more intimately, more clearly, than he himself did.

Wives were so.

And she had seen the danger coming long before anyone else had.

Of course, as far as the Dhartarashtras are concerned, anything good happening to the Pandavas was wrong. Any happiness coming their way was wrong. Any respect paid to them by anyone was wrong. Well, as far as they were considered the very existence of Pandavas was wrong. Their cousins did not have even the right to exist.

So the rajasuya performed by Yudhishthira was wrong. Kings paying tributes to them was wrong. Their wealth was wrong. The sabha at indraprastha, which rivalled the sabhas of Indra and Kubera and Yama, was wrong. Brahmins praising them and blessing them was wrong. Charanas singing their glories was wrong.

For that there is no real solution. For such sickness of the soul, there is no solution.

But Draupadi knew beyond all these, Yudhishthira had made another error. A costly error. A very costly error. He had asked Duryodhana to be in charge of receiving the gifts pouring in from the thousand kings who wanted to please Yudhishthira.

And gifts had poured in as Duryodhana had never seen before. Endless rows of people waiting with gifts. Each with gifts carried by elephants and chariots. Gifts filled in boxes and bags. There seemed to be no end to the stream of gifts.

Duryodhana had to take rest several times a day, so exhausted was he just by receiving them. And yet the gifts kept pouring in. From the Keralaputras in the extreme south. From the Pragjyotishas in the east. From Gandhara and even beyond in the west. From the Himalayan kingdoms and lands beyond in the north. And from all over the land in between.

The gifts from the Yavanas, the Romakas, the Chinas, the Shakas, the Vikings – those faraway people – were as rich, as varied, and as unique as the people themselves were.

And Duryodhana was receiving it all.

Each gift sent a dart piercing deep into his heart. Each gift was an arrow shot deep into his innermost being. Each gift reduced the shine on his face. Until he turned dark. His whole being had turned black.

Krishnaa had seen that. And Krishnaa had seen danger in the eyes of Duryodhana every time their eyes met. Lightning flashes of danger.

Duryodhana had tried to hide it as best as he could. But he had always been poor at hiding his feelings. He was transparent.

If Yudhishthira had, albeit unconsciously, wanted to incite the jealousy of his cousin, he had succeeded totally.

And then the nephew and the uncle had gone back.

In their heart they had carried another memory from Indraprastha, too. A memory different from the memory of the wealth and glory of the Pandavas.

In the sabha Maya had made, Duryodhana had mistaken water for the floor and stepped right into it. And he had mistaken solid ground for water and lifted the hems of his clothes to walk through. He had bumped into solid walls where he thought he saw doors. And had sought for doors that were right in front of him, but which he had missed.

Maya’s sabha was a palace of illusions.

And every time he had made a mistake, laughter had accosted him from all sides. Mirth-filled laughter. Ridiculing laughter. Reverberating laughter. Laughter that went straight into his heart and drew blood.

Every time.

And, apart from the male laughter, there was also female laughter. The haunting, carefree laughter of Krishnaa. Exhilarated, enraptured laughter. Laughter that he felt defied him. Laughter that he felt made him look like a fool, like a child.

Krishnaa’s laughter was a storm throwing its defiant challenge to the mighty trees. Was a tidal wave rushing fearlessly to engulf the shore. Was the mountain brook dashing intoxicated against the mountain in its path.

Wild and intoxicating. Maddening.

Women shouldn’t laugh like that. They had no right to.

Perhaps he would have loved that laughter had its owner been his. Perhaps he would have adored it then. He would have bathed again and again it its glory – perhaps.

But she was not his.

She was theirs.

He had failed to make her his.

And she had not allowed Karna to win her for him either.

Karna could have won her for him. But she hadn’t allowed him to, not allowed Karna to. She had called him the son of the charioteer. Said she would not marry the son of a charioteer.

And then Arjuna had won her.

Arjuna who he had been sure was dead. Arjuna who he had been sure he had killed. Killed by setting fire to the house of lac in which he, his brothers and his mother were staying.

The Pandavas had escaped. Against all his calculations. And then appeared at Kampilya to frustrate his plans again.

To win her and make her theirs.

He had carried the memory of the laughter of the Pandavas in his heart back to Hastinapura. And he had carried the memory of her laughter in his heart.

Back to his home.

Back to his lair.

And Krishnaa had known danger was coming.

Coming soon.

O0O

And it had come very soon.

It came in the form of an invitation to a game of dice. A game of dice in the newly built hall at Hastinapura.

The hall had been built specifically for the game of dice.
And the Pandavas were invited to visit the hall and also to play a game of dice there.
Vidura, whom they called Kshatta, had brought the message.

“Don’t accept it,” Kshatta had said.

“It is a trap,” Kshatta had said.

Kshatta because of whom the Pandavas were alive today. Kshatta the only one who loved them and cared for them unreservedly in Hastinapura.

And Kshatta had said: “Don’t accept it. It is a trap.”

“But I have decided to accept it,” said Yudhisthira. “Yudhisthira does not reject an invitation to a game of dice. Not ever.”

“But the game will not be fair.”

“I know.”

“Duryodhana will cheat. Shakuni will cheat.”

“I know.”

“You will lose your kingdom. You will lose all you have made in these years.”

“I know.”

“They will rob you of everything and send you to the streets empty handed.”

“I know.”

All the four brothers tried to persuade their eldest.

They failed.

No one had ever been able to persuade Yudhisthira unless he wanted to be persuaded.

No one.

Krishnaa knew this.

Yet she tried to persuade him.

“Perhaps…perhaps…” she had thought.

Of course no one ever persuaded Yudhisthira unless he wanted to be persuaded.

O0O

And they had gone. Gone to Hastinapura knowing full well what was going to happen.

They had started on a gloomy day when the wind refused to blow and the sky seemed to be full of foreboding.

Krishnaa’s right eye had begun twitching as she got ready to start. Looking out she had seen a giant vulture perched on the flagpole. As they left the palace gates behind, a donkey had suddenly appeared from among the trees on one side and, braying incessantly, had crossed the royal path and bolted to the other side. Not far from the palace, they had come across a man carrying raw hide on his shoulders. A thousand crows on the trees lining the royal road had set up a cacophony.

She had seen evil omens all around her as they progressed.

But Krishnaa did not need evil omens to tell her what was going to happen.

She knew it. Knew it without a shadow of doubt.

She did not try again to persuade Yudhishthira not to proceed. She knew it was useless.

O0O

The reception they were given at Hastinapura was grand. An entire wing of the palace was given for their stay.

The brothers did not talk. Krishnaa did not talk. There was silence among them.

Music and songs filled the emptiness of their silences.

Duryodhana wanted them to be surrounded by music and dance. Surrounded by songs and celebrations. By festivities.

He had spared no efforts to make sure it was so.

Krishnaa discovered her monthly period had begun on arrival at Hastinapura. She quietly retired to the inner apartments.

She would be spending the next three days alone there.

Alone in the solitude of the inner apartments. Alone and lonely.

While her fate was decided in the dice hall. While her future was decided by her men.

By Yudhisthira, to be exact.

Or by Duryodhana and Shakuni, to be more exact.

But of course, there was nothing to decide.

She knew it. Knew it without a shadow of doubt.

O0O

In the morning she learned how the brothers had spent the night. Spent the most fateful night of their life.

After the evening feast was over and the brothers had entered their apartments, pleasure women had followed them into their chambers.

And these women had sung. And danced. And served them drinks. Long into the night.

And then these women, each an expert in the arts of love, had pleasured the brothers.

Pleasured them in ways only women of pleasure knew how to.

The night had been quite old when the brothers, exhausted, fell asleep.

Krishnaa did not say a word. She did not want to.

She did not want to see their faces.

She couldn’t have, of course. It was forbidden for women to look at their men, to be near them, to interact with them in any way, when they were having their periods, before they had had their ritual baths after their periods.

O0O

Continued …2

Understanding Mahabharata: The Riddle of Pandu 4

In the Mahabharata, and in fewer details in the Ramayana, we have the story of Kalmashapada. Kalmashapada was an ancestor of Rama who had received a curse from his guru Vasishtha which transformed him into a Rakshasa. While living his accursed life as a Rakshasa, Kalmashapada meets a Brahman youth and his young wife in a forest. The couple were in the jungle making love and they had not yet completed their act when they saw the Rakshasa and ran away. Kalmashapada caught the brahmana, and the brahmani begged him not to eat him up. She told him of how she was in her ritu, how desperate they were for a child, how they hadn’t finished their mating act and therefore he should spare her husband. Kalmashapada did not heed her and went ahead and ate up the Brahmin youth. Angirasi, the brahmani, wept bitter tears – and so deep was her pain that as each drop of her tears fell on the ground, it became a blazing fire and burnt up the place.

The brahmani then cursed Kalmashapada. He had interrupted her and her husband making love and killed her husband. He would not be able to make love to his wife any more – if he ever made love to his wife during her ritu, the period sanctioned for lovemaking, he would die. Almost the identical curse as Pandu received and for almost identical reasons. It is this curse that made it impossible for Kalmashapada to have sex with his wife Madayanti and forced him to offer her to the sage Vasishtha for niyoga.

Like Kalmashapada, Pandu too carried a curse on him. His impotence was the result of that curse – but that curse was not given by Kimdama. Pandu was cursed long before he killed the deer. His curse was a result of his very restrictive upbringing concerning sex, his negative attitudes toward sex, the traumatic sexual experience of his mother the trauma of which he had internalized, unconscious feelings of sexual hostility, fear, guilt.

Do insights from psychology or psychopathology explain why Pandu killed the deer engaged in coitus? They do. Annals of criminology are full of crimes committed by men who have negative attitudes towards sex, have deep unconscious feelings of sexual hostility and guilt, have been forced to suppress or repress sex for one reason or other, have an unsatisfactory sexual life, whose natural sexual longings have remained unfulfilled. Lust killings, sex murder – these are terms used for acts like what Pandu did, though crime literature mostly talks about acts committed against humans.

Perhaps these insights would also explain his fury in the battlefields that made Pandu ‘reduce his enemies to ashes”, though this could be a very natural thing to do for a kshatriya and a prince in those days. But it is a fact that Pandu derived pleasure from killing – he devoted in entire life after the world conquest to hunting, which is something few other kings have done, if any.

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Why did Pandu choose Arjuna’s birthday to take Madri into the quietude of the jungle and to make love to her there, meeting his death in the process? Why did he choose the precise moment when priests were chanting sacred incantations invoking divine blessings on Arjuna, the precise moment when brahmanas were being served a feast? Was Arjuna’s birthday no occasion for celebration for Pandu? Was he registering his protest against the celebration, and against Arjuna and Kunti, by walking away from the feast of which he was the host and hence shouldn’t have left? If so, what was he protesting against? The questions we had asked earlier.

For those who are not fully conversant with the Mahabharata, the epic says it was the uttara phalguna day on which Arjuna had completed fourteen years when the Brahmins were chanting mantras and a feast was being offered celebrating the birthday when Pandu took the beautiful Madri away into the jungle. When he should have been with his family, when he as the host had an important role to play and should have been receiving the Brahmins and joining them in the rituals and the feast, Pandu quietly slipped out of the place taking his younger wife with him. Kunti failed to notice this because she was busy serving the meals to the brahmanas.

Ancient Indian tradition forbade sex during the daytime.

The epic tells us he did so because he was overpowered by sex – kamamohita. He certainly could have been. But there is also another side to it – the day and time he chose speaks of other possibilities. He must have been frustrated. It is possible that in spite of his urging Kunti and later Madri to give him sons through niyoga, he really hated the niyogas and felt little affection for them. The niyogas must definitely have been humiliating for him, as being forced to offer his wife to other men for begetting children would be to any man. Yet he did it for the sake of his afterworlds, so that his ancestors did not blame him of not paying back the debt to the manes, pitr-rna, and maybe perhaps because the eldest of them could inherit the throne. But it is also possible that more than his desire for children it was his wives’ desire for them that impelled him, though the Mahabharata does not say so. Women’s longing for children is usually stronger than men’s – for while for man children are a need, for women it is the fulfillment of their being women. It is possible that in spite of what the epic tells us and contrary to what we are told by it, it was Kunti who was desperate for children rather than Pandu and it was she who persuaded him to allow her to have children by other men. Pandu could have resented this deeply, though he could not say no to the strong-willed Kunti, and later to Madri when she sought permission to walk on the path shown by Kunti.

That his children are not his children is not something that many men would be able to tolerate. So Pandu rejects the birthday celebrations, rejects the birthday child, rejects the mother of the birthday child, and goes to the jungle taking his ‘softer’ other wife to the jungle with him exactly when Brahmins are being served at home. And on that day, for the first time in his life, in the passion given by his bitterness and loneliness, his frustration and fury, he succeeds in making love to her there, surrounded by nature in estrus. His success must have surprised even him, filled him with unspeakable thrill, uncontrollable rapture. One moment he is deep in the abysses of bitterness and fury, and the next he is in the heavenly heights of the thrill of his first successful lovemaking. From those heights to which he had soared for the first time in his life, he plunges straight into his death.

There was years of bitterness in him. Suppressed day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, until Arjuna has completed fourteen years. And then, as the birthday celebration is going on, violence possesses him, and the explosion takes place.
Pandu is one of the most tragic figures in Indian literature. His is the tale of innocence punished for the crimes of others. He carries a curse with him – the burden of the knowledge of the story of his birth, of his lineage, which makes his life hell. Pandu’s life eloquently portrays how our life is not all in our hands, how so many factors beyond our control give it direction, something we are loath to admit today. Our past has a strong say in making us what we are, in making our life what it is – and that past includes our parents’ past too. We carry on our shoulders the burden, and the honor, of their actions.

Just as our children will do those of ours.

In the spiritual interpretation of the Mahabharata, Vyasa’s four sons are embodiments of the four purusharthas – goals of human life. Shuka is the embodiment of the paramapurushartha, of moksha, liberation; Vidura of dharma, righteousness; and Dhritarashtra of artha, wealth and possessiveness. Pandu, this interpretation tells us, is the embodiment of kama, desire. He is lust embodied.

Impotent kama, perhaps.

Or maybe perhaps Vyasa wants to tell us that kama is always impotent in the ultimate analysis, in spite of the fact all creation springs from it.

Impotent kama, insatiable kama. Kama that can never give us ultimate contentment.

Na jAtu kAmah kAmAnAm upabhogena shAmyate,
havishA krishnavartmeva bhooya evAbhivardhate.

Never indeed is kama satiated by the enjoyment of desired objects; instead, like fire when offerings are made into it, it keeps flaring up.

Until impotent desire consumes the desirer himself.

O0O