THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (79 page)

That is far from all: a million widows, a million bereaved mothers mourn on the field of death
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. Karna’s quiet wife sobs softly over her husband’s headless body. Shalya’s wives fling themselves over him, shrieking. If anything can be worse than the war on Kurukshetra, it is the spectacle of the women mourning their dead.

Now, Gandhari turns on Krishna, “You are to blame! If you had really wanted to, you could have prevented this war; but you were indifferent. You could have cooled the enmity between my sons and their cousins. Instead, you sided with the Pandavas and fanned the flames. You have ruined the Kurus, Krishna. I, Gandhari, curse you that thirty-six years from today your clan will also perish. The Yadavas will fight among themselves and kill one another, every man of you. And your women will weep then, even as we do today!

As for you, you will wander the earth, friendless and alone and you will die a common death, without glory. I curse you, Krishna, I curse you for the deaths of my sons!”

A hush falls around them. Gandhari is a queen of tapasya and her curse cannot fail. Krishna smiles. Imperturbable, he says, “Mother, your curse is merely the course of fate. For only the Yadavas can kill the Yadavas; and if they are not killed, they will overrun the earth. They are my own people and not men or the Devas can harm them. I thank you for your curse: it is a blessing for the world! And now your anger has been exorcised, you will not curse Yudhishtira and his brothers. Gandhari, I will do anything for the Pandavas. If the Yadavas have to die so the sons of Pandu can live, I am only happy. I say to you again, Yudhishtira and his brothers are my very life to me.”

The Pandavas hear this with tears in their eyes. What love can be greater than Krishna’s? But now, the Dark One’s eyes glitter and in a harder voice he says to Gandhari, “You have cursed me and I gladly take your curse upon myself. Yet, O queen, this is not dharma. You are griefstricken and do not see right from wrong, or the truth from a lie. Not I, but you are to blame for this war! You loved Duryodhana too much and you indulged his every whim. You spoilt him so much that he could never deny himself anything, regardless of the cost. Duryodhana was always arrogant and envious. You are a wise woman; you knew your son’s nature. Why did you never try to curb him? You could have prevented this tragedy, not I.

You accuse me of indifference. Tell me, who came to Hastinapura to ask for peace? As for you, didn’t you know your brother Shakuni’s character? You still allowed him into your house. When Duryodhana was young and impressionable, you let him grow close to his uncle. Gandhari, tell me truly, did you know nothing about the house of lac?”

She gives a start and is silent. Krishna smiles and goes on, “You and your husband are responsible for this genocide and you want to shift that blame to me. You spoilt your son until he did not know wrong from right, but only what he wanted. He began the war that has destroyed the world and you cannot blame me for it.

Dhritarashtra is responsible for what happened. And you, who are a woman of dharma, allowed evil to take root and grow in your home. As for me, I feel no sorrow for your sons. They have what they deserve; why, they have better than they deserve. Duryodhana, the worst sinner on earth, has found Devaloka! Even as he lay dying, he made sure the Pandavas would suffer; and such a one has found heaven. Gandhari, it is because he was your son that he has gone there. Your penance and your prayers have not been in vain. Your sons are with the Gods now, mother. I beg you, set aside your anger in the knowledge that your princes, who deserve the cruelest hell, have attained paradise.

Just now, you told me about your final conversation with Duryodhana. He said, ‘Bless me, mother and I will win the war.’ You replied, ‘My son, victory will be only where there is dharma. Your cause is not just; you cannot win this war. But I bless you that you will die a glorious death and, thus, find swarga for yourself.’

Those were the bravest, most truthful words any mother could say to her son. You are not weak like your husband; you are a strong woman. You must not try to blame me for what happened. Be yourself again: face the truth, accept your sorrow as just punishment.”

Krishna speaks as to a favored child gone astray. Gandhari is speechless at what he says
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THREE
TARPANA FOR A KSHATRIYA 

Dhritarashtra asks Yudhishtira to take charge of arrangements for cremating the dead. The Pandava appoints Vidura, Sanjaya, Yuyutsu, Dhaumya and some others to the task. The corpses are gathered onto wood pyres and set alight. A million pyres burn on Kurukshetra. Then, Dhritarashtra, Yudhish-tira and the others come to the banks of the Ganga to offer tarpana to those who have died. The mourning women all come with them, Gandhari, Kunti and Draupadi also.

Now the men put aside their silks and their jewels; covered by thin cloths, they enter the water. Thousands of women offer prayers, among them the Kaurava widows and Draupadi. Kunti’s mind is on fire today at the river, for she, too, has seen a son lying headless on the field.

It was three days ago that Arjuna killed Karna and the Pandava camp erupted in celebration. When Sanjaya told Dhritarashtra about Karna’s death, Kunti overheard him. She felt as if her heart was being carved with a knife, but, of course, she could not share her grief with anyone. She clasped it to her and wept, alone.

Today, she sees Karna lying on Kurukshetra, his head sloughed off by Arjuna’s arrow. She sees his wife mourning him and Kunti’s world spins around her; but she will not let herself swoon, nor does she say a word. She comes with the other women to the Ganga and sees the lucid currents of the same river, which once, a life ago, bore her firstborn away from her in a wooden box. Kunti hears the Kuru scions paying final homage to their dead fathers. But her Karna is deprived of the dignity of sacrament even in death: all his sons have been killed. He had lived and died the orphan she had made him. Suddenly, his spirit cries out to her that at least now let some justice be done to him. Kunti hears him; she sees his splendid form before her eyes.

Meanwhile, Yudhishtira and his brothers have entered the river to offer tarpana to their dead sons. Arjuna stands with tears streaming down his face, as he offers holy water and pinda for Abhimanyu: to quench his thirst and allay his hunger on his final journey. Kunti lays a hand on Yudhishtira’s shoulder. He turns in some surprise, “What is it, mother?”

She is quivering with the sorrow that tears at her. She says, “Yudhishtira, there is another kshatriya for whom you must offer tarpana.”

Krishna stands near them, watching, a sad smile on his lips. How well Kunti had kept her secret. Even when war was declared she had not told Yudhishtira what she knew; not even when Karna died, had she said a thing. She knew and Krishna knew, that if she had, Yudhishtira would have abandoned the war and gone back into the forest. But now the time for truth has come, the moment of confession.

Puzzled, Yudhishtira says, “How is that, mother? I know our dead and I have offered tarpana for them all. I am not such an ingrate that I have forgotten anyone who gave his life for me.”

The other Pandavas come up around them, wondering whom their mother means. Kunti says softly, “Karna. You must offer tarpana for him also.”

Yudhishtira is astonished. “Karna? Why should I offer him tarpana? He was a sutaputra, mother and our enemy. His sons are dead, so it his father must offer tarpana and pinda for him. I am a ksha-triya; how can I offer tarpana for a suta? What are you saying? I don’t understand you.”

Kunti is sobbing and many of the other women have gathered round curiously. Yudhishtira asks in some annoyance, “Mother, what is the matter? Why are you crying?”

With an effort, Kunti calms herself. Again, she says, “You must offer tarpana for Karna. He was not a sutaputra, he was a kshatriya.”

A gasp goes up from the others and word flies forth, “Karna was not a sutaputra, he was a ksha-triya!

Yudhishtira looks a little dazed. Gently, he says, “But you know nothing about Karna. How do you know he was not a sutaputra? And even if he was a kshatriya, why should I offer tarpana for him? Hasn’t Karna a father?”

The moment is upon her. Kunti takes a deep breath and says in a clear voice, “Surya Deva is Karna’s father and his mother was a kshatriya princess. She invoked the Sun God with a mantra given her by a rishi and Karna was born from their love. He was born wearing golden kavacha and kundala. But his mother was a maiden, living in her father’s house and she feared the world’s censure. She floated her baby down the Ganga in a wooden box and it was on this river that Atiratha found the child and took him home to Radha. They adopted him, raised him as their own. As for his natural mother, in time she married and had other sons. But how could she ever forget her firstborn child?

Throughout her life, there seemed to be a hollow space in her heart without him. She could never forget how she had sinned against him.”

Kunti stands beside the sacred river and she, who had been so strong all her life, seems so fragile. Tears still course down her face.

Yudhishtira asks, “Who is Karna’s mother? Which woman could be so heartless as to abandon her own child as soon as he was born? You must know who she is, since you know so much about Karna. Who was she that ruined what might have been such a noble life? Is the woman still alive?”

All eyes are on Kunti. She looks at her sons’ faces, one to the other. She sees Krishna and his eyes are full of mercy. Kunti feels a deep strength dawning on her from the Avatara’s gaze. She turns back to Yudhishtira. She looks straight at him and, in a ringing voice, Kunti cries, “Yes, Karna’s mother still lives and she stands before you, Yudhishtira. Karna was my son, my first child!”

She sways on her feet and falls on the soft silt of the riverbank. Vidura rushes to Kunti’s side, while Yudhishtira stands as if he has been struck by lightning. Slowly, he turns to face Arjuna, who, if anything, looks more stricken than his brother. Into the hush that has fallen, Yudhishtira murmurs as in a dream, a nightmare, “We killed our brother.”

A roar breaks out of Arjuna. He splashes out of the river and falls on the ground, crying, “What have I done, Yudhishtira? I have killed my own brother!”

He cries out his shock, repeatedly, until river, forest and sky echo with it. “I killed my brother and I gloated!” howls Arjuna. “How can I go on living after what I did?”

His eyes roll up and he faints. Yudhishtira’s eyes turn crimson; otherwise, he does not move, but stands as if his mother’s confession has turned him into a statue. Bheema staggers out from the water and sits beside the unconscious Arjuna. The effect of Kunti’s truth is most evident on poor Bheema. Those that watch see him turn, before their eyes, from an overgrown boy into a man.

Bheema remembers the day of the exhibition in Hastinapura. He thinks of the moment when he mocked Karna, ‘Sutaputra, you are not fit to have yourself killed by my brother Arjuna. Put down your bow and get yourself a horsewhip. That will suit you better.’

He remembers what Duryodhana said to him then, ‘Karna brims with every noble quality a ksha-triya should have. He is like a tiger. I pity you, Bheema, that you don’t see him for what he is and are blind to his greatness, which shines from him like a sun. I have made him king of Anga; he deserves to be lord of this earth!’

How foolish he, Bheema, had been on that day and how prescient Duryodhana. Bheema’s thoughts drift on to Kurukshetra and the duel he fought against Karna. He sees Karna’s mocking eyes and his strange smile again, as he prodded Bheema with the tip of his bow, contemptuously and spared his life. Karna’s words are burned on his heart, ‘Some day, Bheema, you will think back on this duel and feel proud. Some day you will rejoice that you fought Karna.’

Bheema knows, from now, that moment will be his most precious memory. It crosses his mind that, hereafter, for him Karna would be his eldest brother. Near Bheema, Sahadeva sits in a daze, thinking of the moment when Karna spared his life, ‘Go now, boy and hide behind your brother Arjuna. Don’t come to fight your betters.’

Sahadeva sees the glittering eyes and the haughty smile. He also sobs. Yudhishtira has come ashore now and sits shaken and grim, never looking at his mother. His heart cries out within him that it would be better if he never saw her face again, for what she did to his brother, his older brother. Why, for what she had done not just to Karna but to all of them, the sin she made them commit.

Sitting with Krishna and Arjuna, Yudhishtira remembers the final day of Karna’s life. He recalls every moment of it, vividly. He thinks of how he mocked his brother, calling him sutaputra. Suddenly, Yudhishtira turns to Kunti. Coldly, he asks her, “Mother, did Karna know who he was? Did he know he was our brother?”

She hangs her head and cries. Krishna answers him, “He knew.”

All the Pandavas turn to face Krishna. Yudhishtira whispers, “And you also knew, my Lord?”

“Yes.”

The frantic Yudhishtira turns on Kunti, “How could you keep this from us? You made us kill our brother. Do you know, when I heard Karna had been killed, I ran to the field to see if the news was true? More than anyone else, I wanted Karna dead. I feared my brother more than I did any other man. Mother, how could you let us do this horrible thing?”

Then Yudhishtira looks into Kunti’s eyes and sees an age of grief in them, far, far greater than his own. He sees that his mother already suffers as much as she can bear. He sighs and does not say a word more. With his brothers around him, he enters the river again. Now he offers tarpana to his dead brother and it seems the tears he sheds are all he needs as holy water for Karna’s final journey. Somehow, Abhimanyu’s death and even the nearer deaths of Draupadi’s sons are forgotten. The Pandavas have just one thought in their minds: they had another brother and they killed him.