Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (3 page)

Nor do I understand why they say Yudhistira is the son of Yama Dharma, Arjuna the son of Indra. Was not Pandu our father?

Now I hear it from the tongue of this haughty boy. ‘Nothing to say, fool?’ he taunts. ‘They say you are stupid!’

I feel my anger rising. I step towards him.

‘Aside!’ I say.

Duryodhana’s eyes widen, the angry surprise of a palace prince unused to challenge. Then I see rage.

I do not wait. I push, my forehand against his gold-strung chest. I feel him resist, we strain for a split-second. He stumbles sideways.

Duryodhana is taller, bigger. But I am stronger—born to the forest, not to palace maids. I leave him against the wall.

I wait for Mother to chastise me the next day. She has not heard. Even the maids, who hear everything about everyone, have not heard.

I am relieved—or am I? There is so much I want to ask Mother.
Why do they say I am born to kill my own cousins? Why the tales about me?

The palace has changed our lives. Mother is rarely alone here. It is days before I speak to her. She frowns at my questions.

‘Maids’ tales!’ she says, sitting me down. ‘Do not pay heed. You are the son of Pandu and second in line to the throne of Hastinapur.

‘Someday, your brother Yudhistira will be king. You have strength. It is your duty to support him, to protect him—always.

‘It will not be easy... Pray to Vaayu, seek His blessings—be strong like the wind.’

That night, standing by my window, I close my eyes, I whisper: O Vaayu, God of Wind, bless me, protect me from harm, make me strong like you.

And I feel the touch of a gentle breeze, soothing, wiping my fears away… my God is listening.

THE BOY

EPISODE 2

TWEETS 49

The next few weeks lend rhythm to my life. Mornings, I wake up early to the sounds of conch and music from the palace courtyard.

The maids wait with hot water and fragrant oils for my bath. Then it is time for Vedic school, for which I am inevitably late.

The bath fuels my hunger and, though forbidden to eat before school, I always stop to gulp down the meat dishes the maids smuggle me.

Grandfather Bhishma and Uncle Vidura, the most revered of our relatives, say our studies have suffered and we need to progress quickly.

Grandfather has engaged a teacher, just for the five of us. Uncle Vidura’s sons were to join us, but for some reason, they never do.

Yudhistira is happy about that. Uncle Vidura, he says, is our father’s half-brother, born to a maid, his sons not of royal lineage.

‘They are sudhras, lower caste,’ he tells me. ‘They should not be allowed to sit with us kshatriyas anyway.’

That is the thing about my elder brother. So very conscious about who is inferior to him, who his peer, what is right, what wrong.

He loves the Vedic sessions. As for me, my favourite part of the day begins when we troop to Shukacharya to learn the crafts of war.

Our cousins are taught by Kripacharya. Grandfather Bhishma says we have a lot to learn before we can join them.

How good is Duryodhana then? I sometimes wonder.

Duryodhana pretends to ignore me, though at times, I see him watching me. I love the sessions, but hate the way everyone treats me.

My teacher, my cousins, even my brothers, they all see me as fat, slow—and stupid. Kripacharya even says so when he gets angry.

In his eyes, Yudhistira excels with chariots, Arjuna with the bow and arrow. Me? I am good only to wrestle or fight with the mace.

Even there he sees Duryodhana as my better. He is wrong. They all are. Or maybe, they just find it more amusing to laugh at the fat fool.

Let them laugh. Perhaps it is better they are blind to my strengths, blind to the hours I put in after lessons in quiet corners.

I am growing strong, powerful. And more agile, fast on my feet, swift of arm and eye—swift like Vaayu, the God I pray to every night.

In a chariot I am more fluid than Yudhistira. With the bow and arrow, though not blessed like Arjuna, I am more effective than most.

Where I am more deliberate, Arjuna finds the target with no conscious effort. He says he’ll be the greatest archer on earth. I believe him.

He believes the court singers’ tale that Indra, king of all gods, is his father. He prays to him constantly, practises relentlessly.

If Arjuna is not with me, I usually slip into the elephant paddock as I return. The mahouts indulge me; I am the only prince to visit them.

On one such occasion, as I finish grooming the little tusker the mahouts have entrusted me with, I sense someone behind me. I turn around.

Duryodhana is watching me from the massive doorway, silent. He is not alone. With him are two others I recognize: Dushasana and Karna.

Dushasana is one of my cousins, a sad shadow of Duryodhana. Karna, I know of as the son of Athiratha, one of the palace charioteers.

From afar, the son of the charioteer looks a bit like Yudhistira. But my brother would never have the scoff of scorn I see on Karna’s face.

I do not want trouble. I step away from the elephant, move towards a side entrance. Footsteps rapidly close behind me.

I stop.

‘He is running away.’ Duryodhana is laughing. ‘The fat fool is afraid!’ Dushasana joins in.

‘Look at him shake,’ Karna says. ‘Is this the one they say will destroy your clan, Duryodhana? This fat fool?’

Fat fool. I am used to that. But somehow, those words from Karna anger me more. What right does he have to call me that?

I will pay him back—but not with words. Duryodhana has taken a fighting stance. I see Dushasana edging sideways. I take a deep breath.

I know what to expect. Duryodhana will lunge, try to grab me in a neck lock as we have been taught. Dushasana will attack my flank.

I pretend to watch Dushasana, turning slightly. As I see Duryodhana tensing, preparing to rush me, I pivot, kicking out hard at his knees.

Duryodhana falls heavily, yowling in pain. I turn quickly, allowing Dushasana to run into my elbow at the end of his clumsy offence.

As he staggers, I shove him hard, sending him towards Duryodhana. He trips, falls over. I do not let them recover.

Slipping behind, I grab their hair. Their heads are slick with oil, but I get a good grip, tug hard. Their heads clash together. I repeat.

Again and again, I tug. They squirm, yell, but I do not stop. Karna has disappeared.

Shouts. Running feet. Rough hands wrench me away.

The mahouts surround Duryodhana and Dushasana. There is blood on Duryodhana’s head, on Dushasana’s face. They are crying.

I slip away.

Much later, I approach Mother’s chambers. Yudhistira is there. To my surprise, he embraces me. I embrace him, then touch Mother’s feet.

‘Son, why did you attack your cousins?’ she asks quietly.

I didn’t, I say. She looks at me for a long moment.

‘That charioteer’s son came to complain about you to Grandfather Bhishma,’ Yudhistira says. ‘He said you attacked them from behind.’

I tell them what really happened. They listen to me in silence.

‘I understand why you fought,’ Mother says finally, ‘but did you have to hurt them so badly?’

I have no answer.

Mother pulls me close. ‘Keep away from those boys, Bhima,’ she says. ‘They will try to harm you—and people will always blame you.’

I nod. Somehow, that doesn’t come as a surprise.

BROTHERS

EPISODE 3

TWEETS 56

I stay true to my promise for months. It is only on the day I make my first kill—the day I become a true kshatriya—that I stray.

It is the royal tradition to hunt. A rite of passage for every prince and part of our education.

Our father, I have heard courtiers say, loved hunting. Overindulged in it.

Being the younger brother, Father ought not have been king. But Grandfather Bhishma decided he would rule. Uncle Dritarashtra was blind.

Then one day, while out hunting, Father decided he would not return to the palace, that our uncle would take over. Why, I cannot fathom.

I am not thinking of that when we set out to the forest. Arjuna makes a fine kill, an arrow straight through the heart of a fleeing deer.

Mine is considerably untidy and foolhardy. I somehow manage to spear a wild boar that charges me—more a case of dumb luck than skill.

It is late when we return. Perhaps it is the excitement of my first kill: for the first time in months, I walk to the river on my own.

I want a moment of quiet to thank my God. I had felt him; he strengthened my arms when the boar charged.

Standing on the bank, I close my eyes. O, Vaayu, God of the Winds, bless your son, protect him the way you did today—always.

And I feel him answer, a zephyr swirling in embrace, touching my face, whispering in my ears.

I strip, dive into the laughing Ganga. Down, down I go. I swim lazily back— and see him on the bank. Not alone.

There is a crowd of them, Duryodhana at their head. Eager hands drag me out of the water. Fists rain on my back. I stumble. I fall.

I roll away, gain my footing. The blows bother me but little. Fools, they are in each other’s way; in their eagerness, they fail to hurt.

As Duryodhana and Dushasana reach for me, I see my chance. Wrapping my arms around their necks, I take a deep breath, tumble into the river.

I drag them down. They thrash, bubbling grunts. Only when I feel them grow still do I let them break surface.

They crawl on to the bank. Fall, retching. I grab Duryodhana by his wet hair. ‘Next time you attack me, I will kill you.

‘And I will kill you,’ I say, facing his crowd—the fools, the little boys, standing lost. ‘All of you.’

I pick up my clothes. They fall back silently. I make for the palace, knowing well it has not ended.

I am summoned by Aunt Gandhari late that evening. Apprehensively, I walk to her chambers. Everyone is there, waiting.

Aunt sits erect on the dais, Mother by her side. Duryodhana and his brothers stand to the left, in front, intently studying the floor.