Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (4 page)

I walk to where Yudhistira, Arjuna and the twins wait. ‘Have you already begun the war?’ Aunt’s voice is a whiplash in the silence.

She is addressing us all, but I feel her eyes boring into me through the blindfold. She continues, her voice trembling:

‘The men of this palace have cared little for the tears of their women. Women who have sacrificed so much—for blind or impotent men.

‘If you have decided to follow that tradition, tell me now. I shall not wait to hear the sobs of the brides you bring here.’

Her voice softens. ‘Child, Bhima, you are not born to destroy this clan. Duryodhana, your cousin, is not a wild animal to be hunted.

‘But there are many here who tell you that. They teach you how to kill, but they do not teach you how to live like the brothers you are.’

She rises to her feet, slowly. ‘If I hear you have been fighting again, I will leave this palace. Kill or die—that is your will.’

I see Duryodhana’s stricken face as we turn to leave. I try to smile— and for the first time, I see my cousin beginning to respond.

The weeks that follow bring about a new balance in the palace. Aunt Gandhari’s words have moved us all deeply.

No longer do we avoid each other. We now speak, play together. Even the combat lessons are without animosity.

By now the gurus have decided Duryodhana and I should focus on mace fighting. They appoint a teacher from afar for special lessons.

The teacher is none other than our maternal cousin Balarama, of the Yadava clan, famed for his skills at mace warfare.

There is more technique to it than is evident from the outside. I work hard. Secretly, I also continue to practice with other weapons.

Kripacharya may pretend I am skilled only with the mace, but I am determined to be more than a one-weapon warrior. A lot more.

Very often Duryodhana duels with me for practice. There is no ill will in the way we fight. As months pass, I begin to relax.

I should not have.

One afternoon, my cousin Chitrasena comes to find me. ‘Aren’t you going to the water pavilion in Pramanakoti?’ he asks. ‘Everyone is going.’

I hurriedly get ready. In the courtyard I see Duryodhana and the others waiting. Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva are there. But not Yudhistira.

I find him in an inner room, engaged in his favourite pastime: a dice game. He gets up reluctantly.

We reach Pramanakoti in Duryodhana’s chariot. ‘Do not fear, Bhima,’ he jokes, as we climb out. ‘There’ll be plenty of food when we finish!’

The others are already in the Ganga. I dive in. Some of the younger ones cling to me as I swim across and back.

I continue swimming until Duryodhana shouts from the bank: ‘Come on out, Bhima. Let us eat. I have a treat for you.’

Duryodhana has made arrangements in a secluded area. As I sit cross-legged in front of plates piled with food, he produces two mud pots.

‘Soma,’ he says. ‘Drink fit for the gods!’

He takes a swig, pushing the second pot to me. I hesitate and then grab it with both hands.

I do not want my cousin to know it is my first taste. I drink deep. The liquor burns my throat. I cough. Duryodhana laughs.

‘My father is sending me to Dwaraka,’ he says sometime later, ‘to continue learning mace warfare from Balarama. I will be invincible.’

Balarama is our mother’s kin, yet it is Duryodhana who is going! ‘I will be invincible too,’ I blurt out. ‘My father, Vaayu, will bless me!’

Duryodhana laughs loudly. ‘Yudhistira, the son of Dharma. Bhima, the son of Vaayu. Arjuna, the son of Indra! Who believes all that?

‘The impotent Pandu goes on a hunting expedition and suddenly he has sons. Five of them, all from gods! How convenient!’

Karna is sniggering. Duryodhana continues, ‘Paid singers tell the lie, palace maids retell it! You really are a fool to believe all that!’

I sit stunned, absorbing the crush of his words. He has called Mother immoral, us five illegitimate… With a roar, I jump to my feet.

Why are my knees so weak? Why am I collapsing? I try to stand, but my limbs do not obey. As I lie in the soft sand, I hear voices.

Shadowy figures encircle me. There is much jostling. Then, in the crowd that peers down at me, I see Duryodhana’s face.

Holding on to Karna’s shoulder, he is laughing.

THE NAGAS

EPISODE 4

TWEETS 58

I wake to pain. My chest feels like it is in a giant fist. Iron fingers crush my ribs. I scream.

Muddy water fills my mouth. I am drowning. My hands are tied behind me, my ankles bound tight. O Vaayu, is this the end of your son?

The sand is soft at the bottom. I kick hard towards the surface. Slowly, I begin to rise. Then a tug. The rope on my ankles has snared.

A fury of panic engulfs me. Bending my knees, I kick out. My feet strike something solid, sharp. I repeat—again, again.

Suddenly, I am free. The rope on my ankles has loosened, allowing some movement. I begin to rise, lungs bursting.

The surface is far, far away. As I feel the last of my breath burning out, my head bursts through. I gulp in a shuddering, sobbing breath.

I drift, paddling with my feet to keep afloat. I do not know how far the current has carried me; it is a long time before I can think.

When I look up, I see land in the far distance. Rolling on to my back, I begin to paddle, slowly, focusing only on holding my direction.

It feels like hours. My legs are cramping and, just when I feel I will drown, my feet find sand. I can stand; the water is neck-deep here.

I half-wade, half-swim the rest of the way. It is hard to climb on to the bank with my arms tied. Dry ground again! I sob.

In the dark, I stumble on something and fall heavily. A sudden wave of dizziness overcomes me as I struggle to rise. I close my eyes.

It is light when I awaken. I am shivering. But it is not the cold that has disturbed me.

A man crouches next, pressing a knife to my throat.

He is small, wiry. Black hair falls past his shoulders. Eyes like the night search my face.

‘Who are you?’ he asks.

I give my name and palace. He looks at me for a long time, then cuts me free. I try to rise, but sink back, exhausted.

‘Who did this to you?’ he asks, helping me sit up.

‘Enemy,’ I say. ‘My brother.’

That does not seem to surprise him. ‘Don’t give him another chance,’ he says. ‘Kill him.’

As I look at him wordlessly, he disappears into the forest. A little later he returns. With him is another, a wizened but nimble old man.

They have brought fruit. I learn about them as I eat. They are of the Naga tribe, the snake people, skilled hunters and bowmen.

When I finish, the old man hands me a bamboo hollow. It contains a green syrup that smells faintly of honey.

I take a cautious sip. Juice of some herbs laced with honey. The old man motions me to finish it. Soon I begin to feel drowsy.

‘Sleep now,’ the young Naga says. ‘We will be back.’

For the next two days, that is all I do. Sleep. Later, I hunt with the Nagas. On the seventh day, rested, energized, I bid them goodbye.

Everyone is surprised when I walk in through the Hastinapur gates on the eighth morning. I am mud-stained, bare-chested, in deerskin.

Ignoring the questions of the palace guards, I head straight for Mother’s pavilion. Arjuna and Yudhistira are there when I enter.

Arjuna rushes to embrace me. Yudhistira stands by the window. I walk over to Mother, bend to touch her feet.

‘Where were you?’ Mother’s voice is quiet.

Motioning Arjuna to close the doors, I sit down at her feet. Then, I tell them.

Arjuna is the first to respond. ‘Come, brother,’ he says, jumping up. ‘Let us teach Duryodhana a lesson he will never forget!’

‘No. You will tell no one about this,’ Mother says. ‘Bhima, tomorrow you will rejoin your classes. Pretend nothing happened.’

Yudhistira makes as if to protest. Mother silences him with a look.

‘There is nothing to be gained by accusing your cousins,’ she says. ‘All of you need to be careful from now on, particularly Bhima.’

I learn that my cousins had said I drank soma, then wandered off. ‘Duryodhana even joined us when we went looking for you,’ Arjuna says.

I nod. It is as I expected. We pay our respects to Mother and walk to our rooms. Her voice follows me: ‘Be careful. Very careful.’

The surprise over my return does not last long. I tell all who ask part-truth: I fell into the river, was carried downstream, then got lost.

No one questions me closely, mainly because a new martial arts guru has the palace’s rapt attention.

The famed Dronacharya is not of the warrior caste, but a brahmin. Word of his arrival has spread; there are many new faces at our lessons.

But missing is a face I have been searching for: Karna’s. I learn Dronacharya has refused to teach him, citing his low birth.

It soon becomes clear to me Dronacharya is partial, even more than Kripacharya. He has definite ideas on what each student should do.

‘The mace is your weapon, Bhima,’ he tells me, seeing me practice chariot warfare. ‘Leave chariots and archery to others more capable.’

I nod with a respect I don’t feel. Inwardly, I vow to practice even harder, determined more than ever to master all forms of combat.

Arjuna is clearly Dronacharya’s favourite. My brother plays up to him unashamedly, spending hours practising archery as the master looks on.

Yet Arjuna is not satisfied. He feels the master is holding back, saving his secret techniques for his own son, Ashwathama.

‘It is not fair,’ Arjuna complains. I smile. Though it is Ashwathama my brother speaks of often, I know he is worrying about Karna.

‘I wonder how Karna is faring,’ I say, just to tease Arjuna. ‘I hear he has found a new teacher—someone who is teaching him everything!’

Arjuna scowls. ‘I am better than him, brother,’ he says. ‘You will see on exhibition day!’

I am also looking forward to the day when we demonstrate our skills before a select audience. I might well get my chance then.

Since my return, I have been waiting to get Duryodhana alone, but to no avail. At the exhibition, though, he might be pitted against me.

I do not see Arjuna much in the following weeks. I suppose he is busy, training hard.

One of the mahouts, meanwhile, has found me a charioteer to help with my training. His name is Visoka.

Only five years elder to me, he is a master with the reins. Every evening, Visoka and I head out to practise chariot drills.

I soon realize Visoka is no regular charioteer. He is a brilliant strategist, adept at all warcraft, and I grow to trust him more and more.

On the morning of the exhibition day, he is waiting for me. We drive slowly towards the arena. The galleries are already full.

In the royal enclosure I see Uncle Dritarashtra and Aunt Gandhari. Sanjaya, who serves as Uncle’s eyes, stands behind. Mother is there too.

Standing in the middle of the arena, Dronacharya begins to call out names after the rituals are over. The competition has begun.

In no mood to watch, I climb on to the chariot and wait. After a long time, in a silence punctuating the roar of the crowd, I hear my name.