Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment 9

Satya sat down on a couch. Her limbs ached.

'I'm growing old,' she thought. But that was only to be expected. She grew more tired but less sleepy. She also felt less hungry these days, though her memory was still sharp.

Small mercies, thought Satya. Small mercies.

She sighed. Her tiredness and physical aches were less than the grief of her heart. The last rites of her grandson was over. His five sons were so small. She wondered if her step son and grandson would care for those.

She had no energy left to worry for them now.

She looked up as her son was announced.

"Krishna," she smiled at him. He was called Vyasa by all these days, Veda Vyasa. But to her he would always be Krishna.

"Mother," he bent down to touch her feet.

"Ayushman bhavah" she blessed him.

"Mother," he said as he sat down next to her on her invitation. "It is time you left the palace. It is time for you to leave the world behind."

She gazed at him. He was right of course. She should leave for the forest. It was the way of things, of life.

She sighed again. She had buried her husband, two sons and now a grandson. She did not want to watch more deaths. Her son was right. She should leave.

She gave him a faint smile and nodded.

"It is time," she echoed.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 8

Pandu found the burden of his heart only increasing. The days passed in affairs of the state but the nights were nightmares. His wives were patient and understanding, neither uttering even a sound of reproach. He wished they would at least shed a few tears. But they kept smiling as if his impotence did not cause them any heartburn.

Their attitude only made him feel worse, not better. No one spoke a word, but he felt the crushing weight of their expectations. The bards sang his praises, the citizens extolled his greatness and all it served was to remind him of what an utter failure he was. His whole life seemed meaningless and futile.

He left on a Dig Vijaya. It was an escape, he knew, but he did not want to be in the palace anymore. He did not want to be in the proximity of the two women who had chosen to share their lives with him and to whom he had been unable to give anything. He did not want to wait for the inevitable question of when he was going to give an heir to his Kingdom. He did not want anyone to know that he was unable to do what even a mindless beast was able to.

So he went to war. And he vented all his anger, all his frustration in the battlefield. He had been ruthless, trampling his enemies to dust. He was not satisfied with defeating; he had to destroy.

For, in the battlefield, he could fool the world that he was a man.

He enjoyed the battlefields; he reveled in the trumpet of elephants, the neighing of horses, the clanging of swords, the twanging of bowstrings, the whoosh of the arrows and spears. He rejoiced at the smell of blood intermingled with that of sweat, metal and the excrements of men and beasts. He laughed at the carrion birds circling high above, waiting for the day’s battle to end.

At the end of one day’s battle, he came upon one of his soldiers, retching by the side of a tent. He was a young man and it was evident that it was his first campaign.

The young man was embarrassed by his weakness and had mumbled an apology. But Pandu was staring at where the soldier had emptied the contents of his stomach on to the grass.

He had done the same on his first campaign. He had never imagined that a battlefield could be a place of such brutality, where men turned into killing machines, where life had no sanctity, no value. His uncle had placed a hand on his shoulder and had told him. “Do not be ashamed of the horror you feel. It is not your weakness, but your strength. We are Kshatriyas and we cannot shun warfare. But the day we lose our compassion for those we kill, the day we stop being horrified at the brutality of our acts, that day we lose our humanity and Dharma as well.”

Pandu looked around him with sightless eyes. What had he been reduced to! What monster it was he had become!

He had come to escape, to prove himself a man by ruthlessly destroying his enemies. But all he had proved was that he had become a monster.

And he returned, smiling outwards, but chagrined inside. All the wealth he had conquered, he had placed at his brother’s feet. His brother who should have been King if he had not been born blind; his brother who would have been a better ruler, who would not have reveled in the fearful screams of his enemies. His brother who wanted to be King, who resented him for stealing his birthright.

The decision to leave the palace for the forest had been taken on that day. The day of his return. He told everyone he was going on a hunting trip to the forest with his wives. No one objected. After all, they had had so little time together.

His wives suspected something. Kunti it was who asked him, “Swami, why are we here?”

He drew a deep breath. “I am abdicating the throne Kunti,” he said calmly. “I am not worthy to be King. I am not going back,”

“And what reason would you give your people? Your elders?”

“I killed a couple of deer today,” he said. “I’m going to tell everyone that it was a sage and his wife sporting in the form of deers, and that they cursed me to fall dead if I ever touch a woman in desire again!”

“Convenient,” Kunti observed. “It resolves all your difficulties. But have you spared a thought to us? Your presence in our lives is all we demand. Is that too much to ask for?”

He looked at her. He had never loved her more than he did at that moment.

“If my presence is all you require,” he said. “Then you must accompany me. God knows there isn’t much else I can give you!”

“Don’t speak like that!” Madri’s hand was over his mouth. “We do not require anything more for our happiness!”

He nodded. He was powerless to resist their demand.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 7

Pandu often felt stifled in the palace. His grandmother was obsessed with the continuance of their line. From his early childhood, Pandu could remember her disproportionate fear if he or his brother caught so much as a cold. If not for his uncle’s firm yet loving hand, Pandu and his brother might have grown up without ever having set foot outside the palace. His uncle was concerned about the succession, but he was not obsessed with it.

Pandu was told that his own father had died childless, endangering their line and he and his brother were the result of Niyoga. His grandmother told him the story so often that Pandu felt like screaming. She had told him how his mother and aunt had agreed to Niyoga, though it was repugnant to them. “It was their duty,” she told him. “And they knew it.”

Duty was the watchword by which he grew. His duty to Hastinapura, to the Kurus, to the people. From childhood Pandu knew that his duty was not just to be a Prince, but to produce heirs to ensure continuance of the line. Being blind, his brother was spared all those lectures on duty and succession. But Pandu was not so lucky.

But though he wasn’t happy about the constant harping on the importance of having heirs, he knew better than to show it. Self-control and discipline were among the first lessons his uncle had taught him.

A Kuru! A Bharata! He was not only heir to the throne, but heir to the expectations inherent with the post of King. And in his case, it was not enough that he become a good King or an all-conquering one. He had to prove his virility too.

Pandu knew his brother held him in contempt. And he also knew that his brother coveted the throne. There were times when he felt like telling his brother, “Take it and be happy, and at least I can have a life that is mine!”

He thought how ironic it was that his brother who wanted the throne was denied it and he who was apprehensive about his own worthiness, should be given it.

What was worse was his brother knew his deepest anxieties and fears.

“Why don’t you take one of the maids to bed?” Dhritarashtra asked him one day. “You must be the only crown prince who’s still a virgin!”

He blushed deeply but did not answer.

He did not go to any maids either. His virginity was his wife’s. He would not despoil himself.

Then he won Kunti’s hand in the Swayamvara. It had made him more relieved than happy. He would finally be able to fulfill his obligations to Hastinapura by giving it an heir. But- what a fiasco it was, his marriage night!

He did not even look at her or speak to her as he got dressed and stalked out of the room.

He drank himself to a stupor and did not know when he fell asleep. In the morning, he woke with a splitting headache and a guilty conscience. He rose from the couch on which he had spent the night and went to her. Kunti was still asleep, and his sense of shame and guilt increased as he saw the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

He sat down next to her. She was so beautiful. What had been her fault anyway? To have chosen him? He had been the one at fault. And yet, he had run off without a word, demeaning her choice of him.

He touched her cheek gently and she woke.

“Swami?” She whispered and then her face clouded.

“Kunti,” he spoke softly. “I know I am at fault. Please forgive me.” He paused. "I do not know why I ran off like that. I did not mean to degrade you. You should never have chosen me, Kunti. You should have chosen someone else.”

“Please do not say that, Swami,” she had implored. “It does not matter. I am your wife. I am strong enough for this,”

But there was a shadow in her eyes that told him that it mattered. It mattered a lot.

He did not try anything after that night. He slept in the bed and she on the couch since she was adamant that he should have the bed. But no matter how hard they tried to keep it a secret, the servants and the spies took the news to his uncle. What conclusions uncle Bheeshma drew, he did not know.

But a month after, his uncle arranged a second marriage for him and got him married to the sister of the Madra King.

Pandu had not objected. He was in despair. But there was a part of him that was eager too, a part of him that still hoped, that with another woman, perhaps he might succeed. That part of him whispered to him that he was whole.

But after his second marriage, no part of him had any doubts. It was his problem. His alone, and he could not find a solution to it.