AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (27 page)

“Abhimanyu should have told us this before. This is a dishonourable thing to do,” Yudhishtra mumbled. In the pale moonlight, it was difficult to discern his expression.

Krishna clucked his tongue impatiently. “You want to be the eternal wanderer? Don’t you want to sit on the throne of Hastinapura and rule Bharatavarsha as per the tenets of
dharma?”

Yudhishtra remained silent but a mirthless laugh sounded nearby. Draupadi emerged from the shadows. “Dishonourable? Honour died in the Hastinapura Sabha. Duryodhana and his cronies deserve no mercy.”

Krishna smiled at Draupadi. “We have to shame the poor boy but it can’t be helped. People must say Lakshmana Kumara is an unworthy husband for Balarama’s daughter.”

“How will you do it? It’s a dangerous game, Krishna,” Nakula said.

“Dangerous? Cowards!” Draupadi raised her voice. Her five husbands did not dare meet her gaze. “Krishna, these men, if they can be called that, have grown soft eating nuts and berries. I will come with you instead.”

“No, Draupadi,” Krishna gently shook his head. “Don’t forget the terms. If they recognize you, it will mean another 12 years of exile.”

“Tchaw! Conditions of a rigged game of dice; unchallenged because my husbands lacked the courage to do so. Krishna, take me to the palace and I will thrust my dagger down Duryodhana’s throat.”

“Peace, my lady, peace,” Krishna said and turned to Bhima. “I need your help.”

“You have only to ask,” Bhima instantly replied, bowing low.

“Good. Come with me. We have to go over the mountain to meet someone who is prepared to do anything for you.”

“I do not know anyone living over that mountain, Krishna,” said Bhima, puzzlement written on his broad, handsome face.

“Ah, but he knows you, Bhima,” Krishna replied with a small smile.

“But that is the kingdom of the despicable Ekalavya,” Arjuna cried.

“The Nishada will be on his way to attend the wedding. Bhima and I can slip in, do our work and get out fast. It is best that the rest of you proceed to my vassal kingdom of Virata, in disguise. It is the ideal place to finish your incognito period of exile.”

“Duryodhana’s spies are everywhere. Hiding will be difficult,” Yudhishtra said, his voice tinged with weariness.

“Enter Matsya, the capital city, separately. Yudhishtra, you will present yourself as a dice expert. The Virata King is passionate about the game. It will then be simple for you to create a place for yourself as the King’s adviser.”

“Ah yes! Yudhishtra is indeed an expert in the game of dice,” Draupadi said, her mouth twisted with mockery. Everyone laughed, and even Yudhishtra smiled.

“Arjuna can be a eunuch – a teacher of dance and the fine arts.”

“Krishna, how can you suggest such a thing?” Arjuna protested as his brothers rocked with laughter and Draupadi nodded in agreement.

“Nakula and Sahadeva can work in the royal stables,” Krishna said, ignoring Arjuna’s indignant protests.

“And I?” Draupadi asked. In all their plans, she appeared to have been forgotten.

“My lady, you shall be chief maid to the Queen, the
sairandhri.”
“How can she be a maid? Draupadi is a Princess,” Bhima protested.

“Princess!” Draupadi snorted. “I will take the position, Krishna, if it is available. At least I will have food to eat and a roof over my head.”

“What of Bhima?” Yudhishtra asked quietly.

“Once we are back from our journey, he will apply for a position as a cook in the royal kitchens,” Krishna said. Bhima grinned; he had a role he would love to play. “But remember, none of you must ever be seen together,” Krishna cautioned. “Now you must be off immediately, before anyone suspects you were here or where you have gone.”

Long after the four Pandavas and Draupadi had left, Krishna kept thinking of how to pull off the audacious plan he had in his mind. It all depended on Bhima and Ekalavya not being present.

As day broke over the eastern horizon, Krishna and Bhima rode in silence towards the looming mountain in the north, into the kingdom ruled by the Nishada, in search of a Rakshasi’s son.

*****

29
   
S
ONS
OF
F
ORTUNE

SUSHALA DRAGGED HER SON TO ACHARYA KRIPA.
After the shameful episode involving her husband, Jayadratha was as good as lost to her. He was abusive and spent more time in his harem with the women he collected by force or purchase. But she did not dare leave him for ear of the stigma that she had not been able to satisfy her husband. Nor did she dare tell her brother, fearing his wrath. All her hopes were pinned on her son, Suratha. Unfortunately, the boy had failed to meet his mother’s great expectations of a warrior son. The boy was afraid of his demanding mother and abusive father and rarely spoke a word. He was not a dreamer like his cousin Lakshmana Kumara, but a boy who feared the world.

“Acharya Kripa, only you can help him,” Sushala said, her hands folded before the maverick Brahmin Guru in supplication.

Kripa eyed the shy boy with pity and distaste. He was sitting in his usual place under the tree by the river. People going to the temple bowed to him and the Queen of Sindh as they walked by. Nearby, a cow munched on the banana leaves the priests had carelessly thrown out after distributing
prasad.

“Are there not enough Gurus in Sindh who can instruct him?”

“None of them as good as you, Guru. They are unable to teach him well,” Sushala said, praying Acharya Kripa would agree. That would give her an excuse to remain in Hastinapura without setting tongues wagging.

Kripa leapt from his seat and punched the little boy. Sushala was shocked at the Guru’s action. Suratha began to wail fearfully, clutching his mother’s
pallu.
Sushala pulled her son to her, glaring at the crazy Guru.

“Princess, he cannot handle pain. You have made him too soft. It will be an uphill task to make him into a warrior. It would be better to teach him administration and mathematics. Take him to Vidhura. I shall send word to him.”

“No, Guru. I wish him to be a great warrior when he grows up. I beg you to take him as your disciple. I will pay whatever you ask.” Sushala hated herself for crying in front of the heartless Guru.

Kripa laughed. “Pay? You will pay me from what your husband has stolen from the people of Sindh? I would rather starve to death before I take that money. Moreover, I cannot take payment for a job which I am sure will benefit neither the teacher nor the student. My lady, your son is not destined to be warrior. Why should everyone be a warrior? I am sure the boy will grow up to be a decent man and perhaps a good king, if you let him.”

“I want him to be a
Digvijayi,
to be Emperor of Bharatavarsha when the time comes,” Sushala blurted, regretting it the moment the words escaped her mouth. Her son clutched her tighter, sniffling. Kripa looked at her with an amused smile and she averted her gaze.

“There are unscrupulous Gurus who will take your money and torture your poor child, badgering him to become what he is not. He is not made to be a warrior. Thank your stars that it is so. Send him to Vidhura.”

“I don’t want my son to learn from a Shudra. Do you wish the whole world to laugh at him? I know why you do not wish to teach him, Guru. You have always sided with the Pandavas. You think my son will grow up to be a threat to Arjuna one day and so you wish to discourage me.”

“I am afraid your son will defeat Arjuna? My lady, the sun is very hot and can muddle the brain of those not used to its harshness. Please go back to the palace.”

“Guru, you insult me with your condescending words.”

“Pardon me, Princess, I meant no insult. It was but the advice of an old Guru to one who is like a daughter to me. Do not compel your poor son to be what he is not.”

“You are not the only Guru, Acharya Kripa. I will hire the best teachers in Bharatavarsha or beyond. Mark my words, my son Suratha will defeat Arjuna one day. Pranaam, Guru. I am sorry to have wasted your valuable time.” Sushala turned sharply, dragging her son behind her.

The chariot which had been waiting at a distance, rumbled towards her in a cloud of dust. Without looking back at the Guru, Sushala climbed in and pulled her son up. She asked the charioteer to take them back to the palace. Suratha’s skin felt feverish and he moaned with pain. Sushala caressed the shoulder where Kripa had hit him. The bruise had turned blue and begun to swell. How dared the Guru hit a Prince? Kripa got away with everything. For generations, the Kuru Kings had allowed him to behave with no respect towards royalty. There was nothing she could do about it, but she vowed to show him and the world that her son could be a great warrior. She no longer wished to stay in Hastinapura; she would go back to Sindh and hire the best Guru. She would ensure no one called her son a coward.

The chariot jerked forward and Suratha uttered a cry. Sushala slapped him across his face. “Coward! Behave like a man. Do not let me hear you utter another cry,” she said fiercely, though her heart broke when she saw Suratha moving away from her in fear. His lips trembled and a tear made its way down his cheek. “Fool! Don’t cry like a girl. You are a Kshatriya; behave like one.”

People on the street paused to look at them but Sushala did not care. The boy had curled up like a centipede on the chariot floor and was sucking his thumb. As the chariot rushed past the palace gates, Sushala felt guilty for what she had done to her son and tried to hug and comfort him, but he wriggled away and jumped out of the moving chariot. He ran off calling for Pitamaha. Sushala snapped at the charioteer to stop and jumped out and ran behind her son. Her anger was getting the better of her.

Suratha crashed into the old man standing near a window trying to read a moth-eaten manuscript and clucking his tongue in irritation. When Bhishma saw that it was his great-grand-nephew, his expression changed to one of affection. Sobbing, Suratha tried to tell him what had happened.

Sushala came running into the room but hesitated when she saw her son clutching the Pitamaha’s
dhoti.
She bowed briefly and tried to grab hold of her son.

“You hit him, Sushala?”

The Kuru Princess felt embarrassed, not knowing what to say to one she had always been taught to revere before all others. She looked away, unable to face him. Then her anger came rushing back. She raised her head, looked at Bhishma and said, “Yes, I hit him. He is a shame to the Kuru dynasty, to Chandravamsha itself.”

For a moment, she reminded Bhishma forcefully of Suyodhana. The same pride, the same defiance of fate. Then he said softly, “He is not of the Kuru dynasty, Sushala, but a Prince of Sindh.”

His words were like a knife in Sushala’s heart. Was she not a Kuru? But Pitamaha was right, Suratha was Jayadratha’s son, and she merely a visitor to her parents’ home. She was no longer a Kuru Princess. Neither she nor her son had any claim on the great dynasty of Bharata. She was just the Queen of a petty vassal state, the wife of a King who abducted the wife of other men and was then paraded with his head shaved. She did not want to remain on Hastinapura soil. She would return to Sindh and ensure her son began a dynasty more illustrious than the Kurus. She grabbed her son and dragged him out of Pitamaha’s room. The terrified boy paused for a moment, hoping Pitamaha would save him from his mother, but Bhishma stood like a stone statue, silent and aloof.

“Suratha, you will defeat your uncle, Arjuna, one day and rule all of Bharatavarsha. I don’t want to see you crying again,” Sushala said, dragging him through the palace corridors.

The boy flinched when he saw the amusement in the guards’ faces even as they bowed; he blushed when the maids whispered to each other, pointing at him. He did not want to go to Sindh, he wanted to remain in Hastinapura, with Pitamaha and his grandfather, who treated him to sweets and listened to his little stories with an attention no one else gave to his words. He wanted to be with his grandmother, who made him laugh with the stories of her father’s kingdom in the distant snow-clad mountains.

Sushala was still telling him how he would fight Arjuna one day. Suratha was scared. He knew his uncle was the ferocious warrior who had punished his father for something he had done. He was scared to go to Sindh, scared of facing Arjuna one day. If only his mother would listen to him.

***

“Father!” Khatotkacha could not believe his eyes. Bhima had come in search of him! How happy his mother would be! And it was all thanks to this dark and handsome man. Perhaps he was indeed what people said of him, that he was an
avatar
of Vishnu. Khatotkacha fell at Krishna’s feet.

“No, my child, first seek your father’s blessing,” Krishna said to the young Rakshasa prostrate on the ground before him.

Khatotkacha stood up, moved to where Bhima stood in complete silence, and bent to touch his feet. His cousin, Iravan, watched from a distance. Until now, they had both been the unwanted sons of their fathers, but today everything had changed for Khatotkacha. Iravan felt hot tears sting his eyes.