Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (5 page)

THE EXHIBITION

EPISODE 5

TWEETS 63

Visoka brings the horses to a halt in front of the royal enclosure. After saluting the elders, I vault back into the chariot.

‘Leave the sword,’ Visoka says, as I reach for a gleaming blade. ‘The crowd will appreciate arrows in the boar’s head better.’

The horses spring forward. At the end of the arena, I spin around and shoot five arrows, aiming at the open snout of the boar’s head.

Silence. Then the crowd roars. I hear surprise in the applause. ‘Now the bull’s horn,’ Visoka says. ‘Seven arrows.’

Standing on the deck of the speeding chariot, I feel invincible. The target beckons. Seven arrows stream from my bow.

‘All on target,’ Visoka says softly, pride in his voice. ‘Good!’

The crowd erupts. As I bow deep, I see Dronacharya hurrying into the arena.

Visoka brings the chariot to a halt. Dronacharya is breathing hard. ‘Enough. You are not here to demonstrate archery. Pick up your mace!’

My moment has come. The mace feels light in my grasp. ‘Who shall my opponent be?’ I ask innocently, climbing down from the chariot.

Dronacharya does not hesitate. ‘Duryodhana!’ he calls out. My cousin walks down slowly from the Kaurava pavilion and into the arena.

An attendant offers him a choice of maces. He picks one, swings it one-handed to test its weight and balance. Satisfied, he approaches me.

Dronacharya steps back. I am finally face to face with my enemy. I wait, still and silent. Duryodhana crouches into a fighting stance.

I do not bother blocking his first blow. Angling my body, I let it strike past my ribs. He tries again. Again, I step aside.

‘Coward,’ he hisses. ‘Stand your ground. Fight!’ He thrusts even as he speaks, the spiked crown of his mace aimed at my throat.

I bring up my own mace and, with a light tap, push his weapon aside. He swings. I block. Again and again. The crowd is roaring.

I see frustration in his eyes, in the flurry of blows he unleashes. Sweat drips down his face. He is panting. His swings are less powerful.

I want him to tire more. ‘Come, Duryodhana, see if you are a match for me,’ I taunt, dancing away. ‘I have waited for this too long.’

He charges. It is but one last attempt to salvage pride, an act of desperation at the end of his ebbing strength. I sense my moment is near.

His rush is blunt, with crude footwork and wild swings. I parry easily. As its fury subsides, for the first time since we began, I attack.

Instead of deflecting his last swing, I crash my mace into his, meeting his blow with one of my own. Sparks fly as iron bites iron.

Taken by surprise, Duryodhana almost loses his grip on the mace. He staggers. I follow with another blow. Then another. And another.

His arms are too tired to bring up his guard. No mercy for the enemy, the Naga had said. I lift my mace for the killing blow. I smile.

‘Enough!’

Ashwathama steps swiftly between us, his crossed arms blocking my swing. Several voices shout at me. Dronacharya is shielding Duryodhana.

‘This is a contest, not war!’ Dronacharya is trembling. Pushing Ashwathama aside, he faces me. ‘Did you not understand that, Bhimasena?’

Every contest with the enemy is war, I want to tell him. But suddenly I feel foolish; Dronacharya has that effect on me. I turn away.

Dimly I hear the spectators clapping as I walk to the pavilion. At least in their eyes the fat fool has done no wrong; the fat fool has won.

Arjuna is coming down as I climb the steps. He embraces me. ‘They shouldn’t have interfered,’ he says.

I sit near Yudhistira. Below, Arjuna stands tall and proud next to Dronacharya, who is introducing him to the audience:

‘And I give you, Arjuna! Master archer, my favourite disciple, dearer to me than my own son!’

Every eye is on Arjuna. Clad in blood-red silk, he cuts a fine figure in the morning sun. Tiny diamonds glitter on his breastplate.

Walking to the centre of the arena, my younger brother raises his bow casually. Seven arrows stream towards the bull’s horn. Not one misses.

Before the applause can die down, Arjuna is at the end of the arena. Again, without seeming to aim, he shoots 12 arrows at the boar’s head.

I jump up roaring. Even Yudhistira is on his feet, cheering, for once the proud elder brother, not the correct crown prince.

Below, Arjuna has switched the bow to his left hand. Twelve more arrows slice through the air and end quivering on the same target.

The pavilion trembles with applause. As it begins to die down, a voice calls from near the main entrance.

‘Is that your best, Arjuna?’

It is the charioteer’s son, Karna. I had not seen him enter. No one has announced him. As he walks forward, he shoots at the boar’s head.

One by one the arrows my brother has fixed on the target fall. Karna embeds fresh ones there, then on the bull’s horn. The crowd howls.

Throwing a mocking smile at Arjuna, Karna says in a voice that carries, ‘If we are finished with small tricks, I challenge you to a duel.’

The thundering applause from the Kaurava side swallows Arjuna’s response. Duryodhana is yelling something. Pushing past people, I rush down.

Arjuna seems relieved to see me enter the arena. ‘Kill him,’ I say. ‘Karna deserves nothing less. He deserves no pity.’

On the other end, Karna is preparing for combat. Duryodhana is helping him. As I check Arjuna’s quiver, our teachers approach us hurriedly.

Placing a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder, Dronacharya addresses Karna. ‘This is Prince Arjuna, son of King Pandu. Who wishes to challenge him?’

Karna’s proud face turns ashen as the full impact of the words hits him. He swallows. ‘I am Karna, son of Athiratha,’ he says finally.

Dronacharya is merciless. ‘Athiratha of? Arjuna is of the Kuru clan and will only engage with someone of equal status. Which is your clan?’

For a moment, I pity the charioteer’s son. He stands, head bowed, struggling for words. Then I remember the night in the river.

‘His clan does not matter to me,’ I say harshly. ‘If any of Kunti’s sons will do, I am ready. Any weapon. Ask him.’

Dronacharya looks at me angrily. Before he can say anything, Duryodhana challenges him.

‘Since when have we started mocking the brave? Since when has parentage stopped a hero from heroics?’

He turns to the crowd. ‘I gift Karna the kingdom of Anga, which I inherited. From this moment, he is king, worthy opponent for anyone here.’

Arjuna looks at me. He has shed his earlier nervousness. ‘My turn, brother,’ he says. ‘I will send him to the next world.’

I turn, hearing a sudden commotion. An old man, perspiring and ill-clad, is trying to enter the arena. A guard blocks his way.

‘Where is my Karna?’ I hear him ask. ‘They said he is hurt—where is my son?’

So this is Athiratha the charioteer. Karna rushes to the entrance. ‘Father,’ he says gently, touching the old man’s feet. ‘I am not hurt.’

Athiratha hugs Karna. He is sobbing. As the new king of Anga tries to console his father, sniggers from the crowd wash over them.

Again, I feel pity. Again, I steel my mind. No mercy for the enemy, I remind myself, no second chance.

‘The whip suits you better than the bow, Karna,’ I shout. ‘But I will fight any charioteer who wants to play warrior. Step forward!’

Duryodhana comes charging at me. ‘Think about your own parentage before you mock others! Just how did the eunuch Pandu have five sons, Bhima?’

Ashwathama steps forward to seize my raised hand. Dronacharya is signalling towards the stands. Trumpets blare; the competition is over.

I watch as the others walk away. Dronacharya has his arm around Arjuna. Athiratha leans heavily on Karna. Duryodhana walks with them.

I stand in the empty arena, ignoring the burn of the angry sun, cursing Dronacharya and his son.

No breeze comes to soothe the fire in my mind.

PUROCHANA

EPISODE 6

TWEETS 63

‘When can we return to Hastinapur?’ asks Nakula.

That question has been on my mind for days. It is a chilly evening, and we are all gathered around the fire in a forest lodge in Varanavata.

Months have passed since the contest day. A week ago we had reached this town to attend the farmers’ festival, of which we had heard plenty.

Uncle Dritarashtra and Sakuni, Aunt Gandhari’s brother, had praised the fair. But I had been bored out of my wits for days now.

‘We have seen everything there is to see here,’ Nakula is saying. ‘Let us go home. It is more fun there.’

Mother looks up sharply. She is about to say something when Purochana, the servant who had accompanied us, enters to announce dinner.

‘No, child,’ Mother says, eyeing Purochana’s retreating back. ‘There is more to this fair than you have seen. Our work is not finished yet.’

Yudhistira tries to say something. Mother silences him with a glare. Then, in a low voice, she says, ‘The banished cannot return, children.’

As we look at each other puzzled, she asks, ‘Why did the Kauravas sing praises of the fair? They wanted you to come here.’

Mother continues, ‘It became easier for your uncle when you were ready to leave. He wanted you out of Hastinapur. Did you not realize that?’

‘But nobody banished us,’ Yudhistira says. ‘We can go back when we please!’

‘Is that your statecraft?’ Mother lashes out. ‘We will never reach Hastinapur alive if we try to return. Some “accident” will befall us!’

Yudhistira murmurs something. Mother’s speech has disturbed us all. And the more I think about it, the more wisdom I see in her words.

The next day, Purochana comes to tell us we can move out of the forest lodge. A small palace has been readied for us not far away.

The palace stands on the slope of a hill. Woods spread in all directions. On our way in, we have not seen a single dwelling.

The smell of fresh timber and wax hangs in the air as we enter. Strangely, there are no servants to receive us. I begin to feel more uncomfortable.

‘This place bodes ill,’ I tell Arjuna. ‘I do not know what it is, but there is danger here.’

At night, none of us can sleep. We sit talking. Mother asks Yudhistira, ‘Did Vidura say anything when you took his leave?’

‘Nothing of importance,’ Yudhistira says. ‘Just the usual words of wisdom. Although…’

Yudhistira frowns as he tries to remember. ‘He did say weapons are not always made of iron, that war can be waged away from battlefield.’

‘What else?’ Mother asks sharply. ‘Try to remember.’

‘He said, those entrusted to protect may burn down the forest. That people of the forest learn from everything—even the mole and the ant.’

Mother’s eyes are fixed on the wall, at a trail of ants. ‘Fire,’ she says softly. ‘They plan to burn us to death.’

I look at Arjuna, see comprehension on his face. The wood-panelled walls, the smell of wax, Uncle Vidura’s words—yes, everything makes sense.

The palace was made to be burnt down. With us inside.

‘Purochana,’ Arjuna says bitterly. ‘The blind king’s personal emissary to ensure our end! We must kill him!’