Karna

NIGHT FALLS SUDDENLY. One moment, I am sitting in my chamber, nursing a goblet of wine. The next, it is dark, and the servants are lighting lamps. I look at the goblet of wine in my hands. It is almost full, which means I have been sitting here, holding this wine in my hand, for– how long? I cannot recall. I cannot recall when I came into my chambers, sneaking in like a thief, not prepared to face anyone yet. I feel as if the truth is branded on my forehead, and my friend, who knows me so well that he knows every nuance of my expression, every inflection of my voice, would surely see it. I need time, time to compose myself, time to school my features, time to control the erratic behaviour of my heart.

Truth! Whoever said that truth is liberating had no idea what they were talking about. Truth is not liberating– it is suffocating, oppressive, a crushing weight on my soul. For all the brave face I put in front of the emissary from my brothers, the weight was crushing me even then. Truth! The worst thing is, a part of me had known, had always known, that I was not—that I could not be—a charioteer’s son.

Not that I am ashamed of my parents or my brothers, but always, always, a part of me had known I did not belong with them, that my blood was not theirs, though my heart and soul might be. That part had thirsted to know who I was, in truth; it had wanted to know where I belonged, whose blood ran in my veins, what gave me this unquenchable thirst to attain glory, to prove myself, this insatiable desire for knowledge, for mastery of arms. I had always known I was a kshatriya, and I had always ignored that truth because I wasn’t ready to face all the questions accepting that truth might bring.

I had ignored, even when all the signs were in front of me, when I saw eyes so similar to mine, feet so similar to mine, a face that might have been mine but for slight differences and the aura of Kuru Prince that covered it. I had seen, but never noticed all those similarities; I had been wilfully blind and now I could not be anymore. Even as Krishna had spoken, I had realised what he was trying to say, and I had forestalled him by stating things that a part of me had always known but had deliberately chosen to turn a blind eye to.

Turning Krishna down was not hard. I did not even need to think. Leaving Suyodhana is not an option for me. It never had been, not since the days when we were boys in Drona’s Gurukula, and he was this brave little boy who stood up to his bully of a cousin to protect his brothers. I could not recall the number of times Aswathama and I had patched him up after a practice fight of wrestling or maces with Bheema would turn ugly. To be fair Suyodhana did not make it easy for Bheema to control himself. But I only admired him for it, for his fearlessness, even at that age. Being so much older than him, perhaps I should have tried to advise him not to provoke his cousin. But I was a boy too, though older than him, and at that age, winning meant everything, be it an argument or a practice fight or a game of one-up-man-ship on a hated rival.

Arjuna of course, was even younger, and I never hated him, only the guru’s obvious partiality for him. My taunts at him were a relief for all my pent-up anger at the guru and because there was no other way for me to beat him then. The guru would not even pit us against each other since he was a prince, and I was only a suta. And therefore, never once, during the years I spent in Drona’s ashram could I prove that I was the best archer there, because Drona never gave me a chance to prove it.

Perhaps I should have known then that the codes of the kshatriyas which would not even allow a prince and a suta to have a practice fight, would never permit me to duel Arjuna. But there was a part of me that refused to believe that. A part of me that believed that talent, not birth counted; that a lie uttered with no malice had less import than years of selfless service and devotion to the one whom I lied to; that having shown the world what I was capable of, I would be allowed to duel Arjuna.

That part of me had died a slow death that day, in the arena, the day of the exhibition of the Kuru Princes’ skill. Suyodhana had saved my honour by making me a King, elevating my social status, making me equal to any kshatriya, but the fact remained that without the crown of Anga on my brow, I, Vasushena, would never have been considered by the world as anything but a misfit, a charioteer who shamed his birth, a vainglorious braggart who had presumed to challenge a prince.

No, leaving Suyodhana had never been an option, and never will be. And since the gist of Krishna’s offer was that I should leave my friend, I did not even have to think, before turning him down. Not that Krishna did not try– he did. The man certainly knew how to tempt, painting a picture before me that was calculated to make me long for a life that was never mine, but now could be. But still, he was not clever enough.

I might not belong to my parents by birth, I might not be of their blood, but their right over me is still paramount. My love for them and my obligation to them overrides every other concern. Even had Krishna’s offer not included betraying my friend, I would have needed to betray my parents. And that, I could never do. Krishna offering me a sixth turn with the wife of the Pandavas was the most sickening thing that I’d ever heard. In a way, it was more sickening than the day when she was forced to enter the assembly hall, bleeding and clad in a single garment.

We, at least, were her enemies. Krishna was supposed to be her friend. And here he was, offering her, like an appetizing piece of meat, to a man she probably hated. But I had never desired the Pandavas’ wife, nor any woman other than my wife.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts.

Come in, I say, putting the still untouched wine goblet on the table.

The attendant who enters is familiar to me. My Lord, he says. Princess Bhanumathy has requested your company for dinner this evening.

I want to refuse. Bhanumathy is even more adept than Suyodhana at reading me. She will notice immediately that something is wrong. But one does not turn down the wife of the crown prince of Hastinapura without a reason, even if the said princess were not the wife of one’s best friend, and a good friend herself. I can plead a headache or some such, but I would not put it beyond Bhanumathy to come here to check what was wrong, and to bring the court vaidya with her when she came. No, I have to find another way, because I cannot dine with her tonight. She is intuitive as well as perceptive, so lying to her is out of the question.

Proffer my regrets and apologies to the Princess, but I have received some disturbing news from Anga and must return there forthwith.

The man bows and leaves.

I had deliberately kept my statement vague. I intend to be gone by the time the attendant takes the message to Bhanumathy and she comes to me for details. I realise now that I’d been planning this all along. From the moment I had that conversation with Krishna, I’d been intending to go to Anga, though I realised it only now. Anga is the only place where I would be able to find peace. My parents are there, my brothers, my wife, my sons, my grandchildren. Anga is home.

Once there, I can dredge up the last reserves of my fortitude, to play a role before my friend and his wife, to my parents, my sons, to everyone who knows me. It strikes me then that the truth makes Suyodhana my cousin, nay, my brother. It is a far more heart-warming thought than to think that it makes the Pandavas my brothers.

I start smiling. Thank God for small mercies. I am still smiling as I change my clothes, send a message to the palace stables and another one to Suyodhana and leave my room. The moon is fairly bright, and the road from Hastinapura to Anga is in good condition. Thank God for all small mercies.

THE NIGHT IS BRIGHT, and my horse is familiar with the road. Perhaps I should have taken the chariot and tried to get some sleep, but somehow, I don’t think I can sleep tonight. Besides, I love riding, always have, and this night, I wish to feel the wind on my face. I ride at a leisurely pace. It is not wise to hurry in the night.

The streets of Hastinapura are dark and appear deserted. The sound of my horse’s hoofs is the only sound in the night. On an impulse, I turn my horse and go down a side street. The street is so familiar to me. It is where I grew up. The suta street of Hastinapura, where we lived, my parents and I and my siblings, till Suyodhana held out his hand to me and made me a King.

I stop near to the house where we lived then. The house is now empty, but it still stood. The garden that my mother had once tended most carefully is overgrown with weeds, and her plants are all dead, except for a few that have grown wild and have spread over the crumbling mud walls. I dismount and go to the house, pushing open the front door.

It creaks as it opens and almost falls down, the hinges having mostly rotted away. It hangs there and I wonder how I will explain my presence here were it to fall and the crash were to wake the neighbours. Most of my father’s friends must be dead now and none of my friends are likely to recognise me, especially now, when I do not have my armour any more.

I look around the room. Our house had two rooms, this room where we welcomed our guests during the day and where we slept during the night and the other where my mother cooked our food and where we ate.  The front room is full of dust and cobwebs, the dust on the floor so thick that my feet sinks right into it. It feels as if the house is full of ghosts– ghosts of children playing, laughing, crying; ghosts of a man teaching his sons to shoe a horse, to mend a wheel, to ride a horse, to care for one, to drive a chariot; ghosts of a woman singing lullabies, telling stories, dressing scraped knees, mending torn clothes and kissing away infantile tears. I stand in the middle of the room and everywhere I look, I can see the ghost of the boy that I was.

I shudder. Perhaps I am the ghost here, and this boy who looks at me with wide eyes is the one who’s real. I feel like an intruder. I sigh. Why did I come here? What madness possessed me?

A sound, so faint it might have been my imagination, breaks my reverie. I spin around and the man who stands in the doorway stops. His face is in shadow whereas I am uncomfortably aware of the moon shining fully on to my face.

Vasu? he speaks, and the years fall away.

Asmita! I breathe, despite suddenly feeling breathless. It has been a long time.

Asmita is one of the friends of my childhood. We had loved and hated each other with equal intensity while very young, both wanting to be leaders of the other boys. As we grew, our friendship strengthened and though we still fought hard and bloody, we had never allowed anyone to come between us. We had lied for each other and taken the blame for each other, though we were often at loggerheads. Till the day I left for Drona’s ashram in pursuit of my dreams, Asmita had been my dearest and closest friend.

Guilt washes over me as I see him now. I had left, and never looked back. I had gone to Drona, to Parasurama, and then finally to Anga and I never even said good bye to my friend. I had forgotten him and memory comes back only now, when he stands before me.

How are you, Asmita? I ask, awkwardly.

He bows. We are well, my Lord.

I frown. Why do you address me as Lord, Asmita? You know this is me.

He fidgets. I beg your pardon, he says at last. I should never have called you by name. When I saw you here suddenly . . . His voice trails off.

My euphoria fades. I know Asmita would never call me friend again. I am no longer Vasu. I am a Lord, a King, and my old friends are uncomfortable around me. I cannot blame them. In this land, divisions are great, and not everyone has the heart or courage to cross the barriers and risk social stigmas, as Suyodhana did. And though I know Suyodhana never realised it or even thought of it, the fact remains that Royalty can get away with things that others cannot.

I’m still your friend, Asmita, I say, in a final attempt.

Asmita fidgets uncomfortably. I am about to leave the house when he whispers, How are you, Vasu?

I stop and face him. I’m well, my friend. How are you?

I’m well, he replies, his tone more sincere now.

I hug him. He is stiff, and returns my embrace hesitantly.

It is good to see you, I say as I release him.

I mount my horse and he says. I hope you are happy, Vasu. You attained all your dreams. We are all so proud of you.

I nod, unable to speak. Tonight, after the way Krishna has turned my life upside down, it seems especially ironic to recall my childhood dreams. I turn around and ride out of Hastinapura in a gallop, as if an army of demons were after me.

Can I really outrun my memories?

I DOZE OFF IN THE SADDLE. A bit dangerous, and something that has never happened to me before. Today, it is as if I can’t even stay awake on a horse. I shake my head to clear it and to chase off sleep, but it doesn’t work very well.

I will need to find a place to stay. I am out of the city, but I am still in the Kingdom of Hastinapura. The message I’d left Suyodhana was vague and if I know him, he’ll probably come after me once dawn broke. I’d wanted to be in Anga, to have a head start on him, because I really am not prepared to face him just yet. The truth about my birth is corroding my insides like a poison, it burns me, and I feel raw and tender like a fresh and open wound.

I do not want him to see me like this. I do not want him to know the truth. I do not ask myself why I fear to tell him.

I do not fear his rejection. His love for me is too real for him to turn away from me for something that really is not my doing. What I fear is what he’ll do for me if he learns the truth. What I fear is he’ll send me from his side out of some foolish notion of protecting me, to keep me from fighting them. And it will do no good to tell him I don’t care for them, for once he gets an idea into his head, nothing and no one can change it.

He needs me in this war. Not because I am capable of winning it for him, but because I am the only one who can help him come to terms with losing it. If we both survive it. I had told Krishna about my dreams. And though I wish they were only ordinary nightmares, I know they aren’t. The omens are all there. This war will be our end, and I want to be there with him, by his side. If I can buy one day more for him with my life, I will give it up gladly. He needs me, not to fight for him or to die for him, though I will do both; he needs me to make him live, to go on, to survive the losses, to handle the pain. He needs me to see him through the harrowing days ahead.

And I do not want him to push me away due to some idiotic reasons of his own.

The lamp at the pathikalaya is still burning when I reach it. I hesitate. I can stop, stable my horse, get that sleep that is trying to overpower me even now. Or I can ride on, and trust to my luck and my horse’s instincts to keep me safe on the road as I doze off.

I swing my horse into the courtyard of the building. That is the only sensible thing to do. I smile wryly at the thought. Sensible is not how I would ever have described myself. In fact, I cannot think when I’d last behaved so sensibly.

I dismount and knock at the gate. It is a while before shuffling footsteps approach and the gate is opened by a young boy who is around Lakshmana’s age. He takes my horse to the stables and I climb the steps into the welcoming warmth of the house. I had not noticed how cold the night was, and I am not dressed to keep out the cold.

There’s a slightly older youth inside. He leads me to a room that is warm and has a bed. He asks if I require anything and I shake my head. It is late, and I don’t want to put him to cooking food for me. In spite of the way my stomach is grumbling, I know it is sleep I need more.

Perhaps things will look better in the morning. Things always did look better in sunlight than in darkness. Perhaps, my situation will too. And perhaps sleep will help, will stop me from feeling as if my heart has been flayed to pieces.

I lie down. The bed is lumpy, but I’ve slept in worse. Though my body craves sleep, my mind refuses to oblige now that I am in a bed. My mind keeps going through my meeting with Krishna. The way his eyes assessed me, the shrewdness in those eyes as he tried to tempt me away from my friend.

I sigh deeply. I had made him promise to keep the truth from his cousins, and I had used the only argument that I knew he could not refute. When did I become so shrewd? When did I become so clever? I sigh again. My reasons are simple. I do not want them to know. I do not want their false obeisance or affection. How can the truth alter all that had happened? How can it remove the sting of Bheema’s insults? How can it send to oblivion the vows that I made regarding Arjuna or his regarding me? How can it make Yudhishtira less ambitious? How can it negate Nakula’s contempt or Sahadeva’s anger?

How can the truth change anything in them when it has not changed anything in me?

I yawn. It seems my mind will finally permit my body to sleep. I fall asleep wondering if this is what being in shock feels like.

I WAKE LATE; the sun is already in the sky. For a moment, I can’t recall where I am, and I look around, confused. Awareness returns and with it, memories. I slump back into bed, wondering how it would be if I were to stay in here until I am ready to face the world. My lips twist wryly at the cowardice of my own thoughts.

I rise; there is a basin of cold water in the corner, and I wash my face. I will need to have a proper bath when I get back to Anga. For now, this and a change of apparel will have to do. I get dressed and go outside. The two young men have prepared breakfast. It is plain fare, a simple rice porridge and milk, but it is filling, and I