Bhima Lone Warrior Page 2

  Among the ascetics who had accompanied us from Shatasringa was one who was very old. He went with the other brahmins who had come with us to meet the guards and came back alone.

  Mother asked, in a voice tinged with anger, ‘How long are we to wait?’

  The old ascetic said, ‘A messenger has gone to the royal court. Pandu was the king of Hastinapura. Therefore, his wife and children have to be received with all due ceremony.’

  My elder brother, Yudhishtira, stood quietly behind Mother. My younger brother, four-year-old Arjuna, who was running to and fro among the stationary chariots, came up to me and asked, ‘Is this our kingdom?’

  I did not reply.

  Before we started on our journey, when the servant maids were getting us ready, Mother had said to us, ‘We are going back to the capital.’

  I had often wondered why we had been living in tents in the forest when a kingdom and all the comforts of life were waiting for us. The servant maids had told us of the obsession the kings of the Kuru race had for hunting. I had asked myself repeatedly: at the time when, after performing the Ashvamedha sacrifice successfully, my father should have been ruling over the country, wielding power and prestige, why had he chosen to go and live in the forest with Mother and our younger mother, Madri? It was difficult for me to understand a passion for hunting that lasted six years. Besides, kings who set out to enjoy the pleasure of the hunt did not usually take their queens with them.

  I knew, as we waited at the gates of the fortress, that we were the princes of Hastinapura, where our father’s elder brother, Dhritarashtra and his children lived. Aunt Gandhari had sent messengers bearing gifts and pearl-studded jewels to the forest. And we had heard much about Bhishmacharya, whom we had been taught to revere like a grandfather. It was he who had brought up my father and his elder brother. Our real grandfather, Krishnadvaipayana, they said, was always away, wandering around the sacred forests.

  Aunt Gandhari had given birth to a son at the same time as I was born. I had heard the servant maids whisper to one another that if my uncle had not been blind, and had not therefore entrusted the kingdom to my father who was his younger brother, it was that child of Gandhari’s who would have become the crown prince. My elder brother, Yudhishtira, now had the right to the throne of Hastinapura. It was he who had been told to light my father’s pyre in the forest, seventeen days earlier.

  I looked at my elder brother, who stood half-hidden behind Mother. I thought he too was afraid. This brother, who made a fuss if we even touched him while playing, saying we had hurt him: was it about him the sootas and magadhas sang songs of praise? The songs said he would conquer fourteen kingdoms and earn the title of Emperor.

  Suddenly, conches sounded and drums thudded from within.

  Groups of people had started to gather, perhaps because they had heard we were waiting at the fortress gates. Many of them were women. People were pointing at us and saying something to those behind them. As the crowd swelled, those in front came closer. Watchful, Mother rebuked Arjuna softly for straying away from our group.

  The palace guards moved to either side and the bodyguards came out. In the group of people following them, I noticed a man walking rapidly towards us. His grey hair was knotted above his head like a crown. His beard was white. Taking long strides, he overtook all the others.

  Mother said, ‘Walk on, walk on …’

  She set Sahadeva down and greeted the man respectfully, her palms joined above her head. Then she knelt down before him.

  He touched her head and said, ‘All the boys have come, that is good.’

  Mother looked at my elder brother and said, ‘Prostrate yourself before your grandfather.’

  We prostrated ourselves before him one by one, in order of our age. As Nakula and Sahadeva waited for Mother to indicate their turn, he swept them up together in his arms.

  By that time, a noisy crowd of men and women had gathered around us.

  I looked at the grandmothers who were embracing Mother. We greeted them one by one, according to the instructions of the sages.

  A man stood at a distance from all of us, watching and smiling. He was one of the group who had accompanied Grandfather Bhishma. He wore no upper cloth, no ornaments. I thought the eyes that peered through the wavy hair that fell over his forehead had a smile in them. He was thin and tall. He was not a brahmin, nor did he wear the decorations of a kshatriya.

  Mother noticed him when she broke free of the group of women. She quickly prostrated herself before him. He smiled and said something to her but I did not hear what he said.

  Mother’s eyes were searching for us.

  ‘Prostrate yourselves before your younger uncle, Vidura.’

  Someone pushed Yudhishtira from behind so that he stood in front of us.

  After Yudhishtira had made his obeisance, Uncle embraced him and said, ‘You look even more radiant than I had imagined, child.’

  When the courtesies were over, Uncle gripped my shoulder in a caress and said to someone who stood near him, ‘Bhima has grown bigger than Duryodhana!’

  People washed our feet with water. The crowd that was pushing itself closer to us began to sound vociferous. Bhishmacharya called Vidura and said something to him. Vidura spoke to the old ascetic, who was part of the group which had come with us from Shatasringa: ‘The brahmins, the noblemen and all the families who are gathered here have come to meet the sons of Pandu. Please introduce them.’

  The old man came up to us and then turned to the crowd. The royal group at the fortress gates and the crowd around us fell silent, waiting to hear him speak.

  ‘The great and benevolent monarch Pandu, king of the Kauravas, is no more. You all know that.’

  He paused.

  His voice grew louder as he started to speak again.

  ‘Noble people of Hastinapura, extend your welcome to the brave sons that Pandu had by his wives through divine boons while he was in Shatasringa!’ Taking Yudhishtira’s hand, he led him forward. ‘This is Yudhishtira, the son of Kunti, Pandu’s eldest son, born through the blessing of Lord Dharma. The prince who will one day be famed by the name of Dharmaputra, Dharma’s son.’

  My elder brother smiled. He was always careful to display the exact degree of humility each occasion demanded. He was being very attentive to Mother’s instruction that all eyes would be upon us and that we must therefore conduct ourselves with the dignity proper to princes.

  Someone moved me forward.

  ‘The second Pandava, born from the blessing of Vayu, the Wind God, Lord of one of the eight directions. Bhimasena is destined to become extremely strong.’

  Thinking that my uncle’s son, Duryodhana, might be somewhere among the group of women and would hear this, I held my head high and looked for him. Did these people not believe the ascetic? They were laughing. Were they laughing at Vayu’s son, destined to become the mightiest of the mighty?

  The ascetic lifted up Arjuna, then set him down and said, ‘Arjuna, the middle Pandava. The young warrior born of the God of Gods, Indra. Celestial voices proclaimed at his birth that he will subdue all archers.’

  He then pointed to Nakula and Sahadeva, one of whom straddled Mother’s hip while the other clung to her hand, ‘Nakula and Sahadeva, twin sons of Madri, who fell upon her husband’s funeral pyre, choosing to follow him. When they grow up, no prince on the face of this earth will be able to challenge these boys, born from the blessing of the Ashwini Devas, in intelligence and beauty.’

  The smiles on people’s faces had vanished. They looked stunned: it must have been at that moment that they remembered the deaths in the forest. I too felt sad when I recalled my younger mother, Madri, who had flung herself into Father’s pyre and died. The servant maids had comforted us, saying that many kshatriya women had done the same thing.

  One of the ascetics said, ‘Let us get ready to conduct the funeral rites for Pandu and Madri, who performed many good deeds, lived in the forest and earned wealth in the form of sons so that the Kuru
race could grow and flourish. Once the mourning period is over, let all the noble brahmins and lords conduct prayers and sacrificial rituals to honour the gods who conferred this wealth in the form of sons upon them.’

  Vidura said to Mother, ‘Come with me, the king is waiting for you in the court.’

  Mother went in with all the old women. Yudhishtira followed, holding Vidura’s hand. Arjuna and I walked behind Grandfather Bhishma. The women had hoisted Nakula and Sahadeva on their hips. Fascinated by everything they saw in Hastinapura, the little ones laughed delightedly.

  A woman whose face was entirely concealed by a black cloth wrapped around her head waited alone at the entrance to the main hall of the court. Mother ran up to her and fell at her feet in obeisance. She lifted Mother up and said, ‘Forgive me for not coming out to welcome you. You know I never go out.’

  We did not need to be told who she was – our aunt Gandhari, who always covered her face and never went out. Her messenger used to bring us gifts. I longed to see the face behind that black mask. We prostrated ourselves before her in turn, then stood within the circle of her long, slender arms on which the blue veins stood out clearly. She said to each of us softly, in a voice that was almost a murmur, ‘May you prosper.’

  Mother wiped the tears from her eyes.

  My aunt placed her hand on Mother’s shoulder and said, ‘Walk on. He is waiting.’

  My blind uncle. When she had learnt he was blind, my aunt had decided to cover her face, live within the confines of the palace and never go out.

  He was alone, his presence filling the couch placed in the centre of a space surrounded by intricately carved wooden pillars. A forest of hair rose above a golden band, in the centre of which glittered a jewel. Devoid of pupils, his eyes were like white circles. His heavy jaws moved constantly, as if he were chewing. I was frightened when I looked into his rolling eyes, and stopped some distance from him. Was he chewing on something, or muttering to himself?

  Mother said, ‘I am Kunti, who has become a widow. My sons and I bow before you in obeisance.’

  He placed his hand on my head when I prostrated myself before him. Standing afterwards within his embrace, I was suddenly struck by the size of his massive arms.

  He said, ‘These five boys are also my sons from now on.’

  Mother wiped tears from her eyes once more.

  I felt that his feeble voice did not suit his massive frame.

  One of the songs I had heard the sootas sing in the forest had been about this uncle. It said that King Dhritarashtra had the strength to subdue 10,000 elephants in rut. While Nakula and Sahadeva were prostrating themselves before him, I avoided looking at his eyes and gazed instead at his huge hands and broad chest. How small the devachhanda necklace with its hundred strands looked, lying on the expanse of his wide chest! The singers were right. His hands were as massive as sala trees. If he had had eyes, he could have defeated all the kings with just those huge arms.

  Maybe the sootas and magadhas who wrote the songs had exaggerated a bit. But it was clear that this uncle had the strength of at least one rogue elephant.

  I suddenly noticed three boys who had entered the hall and were standing behind Uncle. The one who stood on his right, running his fingernail over the golden bubbles on the corner-piece of the couch kept staring at me. Long earrings hung from his ears and a rashmikalapam necklace with fifty-four strands lay over his breast like armour. I said to myself, it looks ugly on him. I was probably jealous, since I wore only an ekavali chain with a single strand.

  Having sent away the people who had come from Shatasringa with gifts, Grandfather Bhishma joined us in the court.

  He saw us children standing at a wary distance from one another and smiled. ‘Come, Duryodhana and Dussasana. You are all going to be together now. Chitrasena, child, come here.’

  Uncle was speaking to Vidura, ‘You must perform the funeral rites for Pandu and Madri. Make sure the brahmins are given all the usual gifts.’

  It was Chandrasena, the youngest of them, who came up to us first.

  Duryodhana had been born on the same day as I. Not moving from where he stood behind the couch, he continued to stare at us. I tried to smile at him. He pretended not to notice. He looked bigger than me.

  As we walked towards the palace kept ready for us, I laughed.

  Yudhishtira looked at me warningly. Pretending I had not seen him, I said to Arjuna, ‘Did you see, Uncle’s sons are wearing flowers in their hair!’

  My elder brother said, in a tone that implied there was nothing strange about this, ‘Blockhead, princes usually wear flowers in their hair. There were not enough servant maids in the forest to bring us flowers, that’s why we didn’t wear them.’

  I had been about to say something else, but I kept quiet, since he had called me a blockhead. When Grandfather Bhishma had called them to meet us, Dussasana had looked at his elder brother, as if asking him what to do. I had wanted to ask Duryodhana, isn’t it difficult to wear a burdensome necklace with fifty-four strands? Dussasana, the younger brother, wore only a manavakam chain with sixteen strands around his neck.

  When we were at Shatasringa, I had once listened with great interest as Mother set out all of Father’s jewels to teach my elder brother about the different kinds of ornaments and their names. I had secretly decided at that moment that, when I grew up, I would wear a star-necklace with twenty-seven huge pearls. I had heard that it was the necklace that best suited intrepid warriors with massive bodies.

  Why had Duryodhana looked at us with such resentment? Even when I smiled, he had continued to look grave.

  Preparations were still underway in the palace that had been set apart for us.

  One of the older servant maids came up to me and said, ‘Let me look at you properly.’ The maids caressed us, one by one, telling us stories as they did so. There had been a cyclone here in Hastinapura the night I was born in the forest. Vultures and owls had screeched. Jackals had come into the palace grounds and howled. Astrologers had observed the positions of the stars and predicted that I had been born in order to annihilate my race. The old woman reminded us that this prediction was equally applicable to Duryodhana.

  Many people came to see us, most were palace attendants. They stood respectfully before Yudhishtira, who was only a year older than I, their palms joined. Yudhishtira would be a king in the future. Therefore he remained serious most of the time, smiling only when necessary as he accepted these courtesies.

  Nakula and Sahadeva were in the hall inside, with Mother. The visitors paid their respects to Arjuna as well, since he was going to be the greatest of archers. Before they left, they recalled the story of the strange child who had fallen down from someone’s arms as soon as he was born and, instead of being injured, had shattered the rock on which he fell. So they came and looked at me with amazement. Pretending to hold me close and caress me, they pressed various spots on my body, testing its strength.

  I was surprised to learn that stories had reached the palace about me as well. I had heard, while we were in the forest, of how I had fallen once from my mother’s arms and how, when she picked me up, terrified, she had been very relieved to find that nothing had happened to me. But the story had gathered strength as it made its way here.

  I hid my embarrassment. Was my build so different from that of other children?

  On our first night in the palace, we were served abundant quantities of food and there was a variety of dishes. I made the discovery that food could be made in so many varied forms and with such a multitude of flavours. In the forest, anything we could find to fill our stomachs when we were hungry had been considered food. Those who served us smiled as they refilled my empty plate. Yudhishtira looked at me warningly, as if to say this was not suitable behaviour for a prince, but I pretended not to notice.

  At night, an old soota came and sang ballads that narrated stories from the past. When he began to sing the tale of how King Shantanu had seen Ganga and desired her, Yudhishtira asked hi
m to stop. We had heard it so many times. So he sang the story of the serpents, Kadru and Vinata, instead.

  Feeling sleepy, I went away. When I lay down, I thought about Father’s death. All of us had to perform the funeral rites the next day. But if we were to believe what the ascetics had said, was it really my father who had died? The father whom I, who was going to become so mighty, must venerate, was the God of the Wind – and he was immortal.

  From the time I could remember, we had been taught to pray to three forces: to Indra of the thousand eyes, Fire with seven flames and Rudra who had been born as the blazing light of Brahma’s fury. I looked at Arjuna, asleep next to me. At least one of the prayers he recited daily must reach out to his father, Indra.

  Did my father, who was the Lord of the Hurricanes, ever think of me?

  I had a dream that night: a mighty elephant in rut lunged forward to attack me, tossing its tusks. When I tried to climb a tree to escape from it, a watchman brandishing an axe barred my way.

  I woke up with a start and found my elder and younger brothers sleeping on either side of me.

  It seemed to me that I had seen the face of the axe-wielding watchman who guarded the tree somewhere. It resembled the face of Uncle’s son, Duryodhana.

  Half asleep, I closed my eyes and prayed silently. ‘O God who chains the stormy winds, I, your son, a child five years old, am here.’

  The god who was my father did give ear once to my heartfelt prayer. Many years later.

  2

  Our youthful years in Hastinapura were filled with very busy days.

  Before day broke, we would begin to hear music in which strains of the conch, the mridangam, the veena and the flute mingled. Reluctant to get up, I would lie in bed. In a little while there would be the sounds of brahmins performing their rituals of purification. The intermittent thudding of drums would follow; then the trumpeting of one of the less obedient elephants from the distant sheds and the clatter of horses’ hooves keeping time with the rolling of chariot wheels. During that period in my life, I thought that the most beautiful music in the world was the sound of rolling chariots.