Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (7 page)

BAKA

EPISODE 8

TWEETS 41

I do not remember the journey that follows. It is weeks before we reach the outskirts of Ekachakra—weeks I yearn to turn back.

Yudhistira leads us to a house at the far end of the village. The owner seems to expect us; Uncle Vidura has not been idle.

A room has been set aside for our use. In the other, smaller, room, the owner sleeps with his wife, son and daughter.

The next morning, as befitting brahmins, my brothers and I go around, begging for alms. When we return, Mother divides the food among us.

On the eighth day, I come home late. Mother and my brothers are in the other room, trying to console our hosts who are weeping.

Seeing me walk in, Mother says, ‘If only one person is needed, my second son will go.’

‘Are you out of your mind, Mother?’ Yudhistira is so perturbed he has forgotten himself. ‘We cannot afford to lose Bhima!’

Mother silences him with a withering look. Then, turning to the family, she says, ‘Do not trouble your minds. My son will go.’

Back in our room, she turns to Yudhistira. ‘Is that all the faith you have in your brother? The one you count on to win all your wars?’

My elder brother looks embarrassed. He murmurs something about not wanting to take unnecessary risks, but Mother has already turned away.

Arjuna finally explains the situation to me.

A forester who lived nearby left the villagers alone only on one condition: they supply a cartload of rice and two buffaloes every month.

Each household had taken turns to meet the tribal’s demand, sending someone to deliver the food. But often, the villager did not return.

‘He kills brahmins as a pastime,’ Arjuna says. ‘Only two have escaped him. They say Baka is fierce and mighty—undefeatable.’

Then he adds, smiling: ‘But what do the poor brahmins know of the might of Bhimasena who broke the forester Hidimba like a twig, eh?’

An unknown enemy is always disconcerting. What if Baka is stronger than Hidimba? Would I still be a match? That night I do not sleep properly.

I rise well before dawn. By the time I have bathed, the cart is ready. I touch Mother’s feet first, then Yudhistira’s, before I set off.

The ride to the edge of the forest is short and dusty. Past the green paddy fields on the village outskirts, the buffaloes balk a little.

Jumping down from the cart, I murmur soothing words, coaxing the beasts on to the forest path. For a while, I walk in front.

Follow the path, my host had said the night before, I would be met. I do not have to travel long before I am stopped by a tribal.

Taking him to be Baka’s aide, I point to the loaded cart, playing the part of the hapless brahmin. He nods, gesturing me on to a side path.

The clearing we enter is by the mouth of a cave. A large metal pot stands on a hearth in the centre, bubbling with some kind of animal fat.

Another of Baka’s aides is standing by the fire, stirring the brew with a long stick. Seeing me, he stops, disappears into the cave.

The man who comes rushing out stands a head taller than me. Matted hair, red beard, blackened teeth. Small bloodshot eyes size me up.

Baka is bigger than Hidimba, but I need not have worried. He is not muscle, just flesh—waves of jiggling flesh on a pair of spindly legs.

Time for combat. Time for the quivering brahmin to turn warrior. Standing to my full height, I walk to the centre of the clearing.

‘Have you heard of the mighty Hidimba?’ I say. ‘I am the one who killed him. Now it is your turn, Baka!’

Verbal duel before physical attack. An unsettled enemy is easier to overcome, Shukacharya has told me a thousand times.

Baka roars when he realizes I have come for battle. As he rushes me, I seize the steaming pot from the hearth and send it hurtling.

His scream trembles the forest as the vessel lands on him. When he stumbles forward, blinded, burning, I kick his legs from under him.

Jumping on his back, I press him down with my knee and grab his head. The animal grease has made it slick, but I get a good grip.

I twist the massive head to the left, then, in one swift motion, to the right with all the power in my shoulders. A satisfying crack.

The flabby torso jerks once, then falls still. I had not expected a difficult fight, but who would have thought Baka would be so feeble?

Baka’s men are standing in shocked silence. As I rise, a flurry of arrows whistles past, to kick up dust in a semicircle around their feet.

‘Take the corpse—leave,’ I hear Arjuna’s voice from behind. ‘Never set foot in this forest again.’

He comes forward to touch my feet. ‘Mother’s calculations were right,’ he says. ‘Baka was no Hidimba!’

Then, seeing my questioning glance, Arjuna adds, ‘Elder brother asked me to come.’

When we return in the afternoon, Yudhistira is waiting in the courtyard. He rushes to greet us, relief washing over his face.

‘Baka will not bother us anymore,’ I say, adding with a smile, ‘Though elder brother was unsure if Bhimasena was a match for him alone!’

Yudhistira responds, frowning, ‘Wars are won by foresight and strategy, Bhima—not by blind trust in the strong.’

Suddenly, shedding his seriousness, he embraces me. ‘I wanted you safe, brother,’ he says.

For the first time since he asked me to leave Hidimbi, I feel affection for Yudhistira. I return his embrace.

IN DRUPADA’S PALACE

EPISODE 9

TWEETS 63

A brahmin arrives with a message from Uncle Vidura. It changes all our plans.

Yudhistira tells me about it late that night. ‘There is a swayamvara Uncle Vidura wants us to attend. In the palace of King Drupada.’

Drupada is our neighbour, ruler of Panchala, an ageing but powerful king. Arjuna and I had visited him a year ago, on a mediatory mission.

We had gone to him with territorial demands. Even when we threatened war, Drupada had listened with a gentle smile.

Then, patiently, he outlined an alternative. I still remember the tactful way he had soothed our youthful fervour and averted war.

On that occasion, I had met his sons. Drishtadyumna, younger to us, and Shikhandi, our elder. But I had not known he had a daughter.

‘Draupadi is Drishtadyumna’s twin,’ Yudhistira is saying. ‘If one of us wins her hand, we will gain a powerful ally in Drupada.’

No surprises there. Marriage for strength. That has always been the way of our clan.

Wives become queens based on the might of their family. Wives without might are discarded.

‘But this is no regular swayamvara,’ Yudhistira continues. ‘Drupada has arranged for a weapon contest. Draupadi will marry the victor.’

I nod. A contest is interesting, especially if the prize is a powerful alliance. But Yudhistira appears to be thinking about something more.

‘They say she is a ravishing beauty,’ he says softly, almost to himself, ‘with skin like dusk.’

Somehow, that does not enthuse me. Not for me this princess of Panchala. Mine, I had left behind—with my child growing in her belly.

Yudhistira wakes me up earlier than necessary on the day of the swayamvara. When I protest, he admonishes:

‘The palace is a long way. We do not want to be late.’

I cannot but notice Yudhistira is unusually spirited. Is it the prospect of regaining our kingdom? Or the thought of the Panchala princess?

It is late morning when we arrive at the Panchala palace gates. To avoid undue attention, we make our way to the swayamvara hall one by one.

My brothers have already taken seats in the area reserved for brahmins when I enter. Slowly, I make my way to where Arjuna sits.

He does not notice me. He is staring intently at something suspended from the centre of the arching roof.

Glinting in the sunlight flooding through carefully angled openings in the ceiling is a golden bird cage. Inside, a wooden bird swirls.

I touch Arjuna’s knee and point to the far corner. There, on a podium under a silk covering lies what is unmistakably a great bow.

He smiles tersely. It is clear what the contest is: shoot down the tiny bird, swirling high, with an arrow from the great bow.

I look around the hall. Opposite us sit hundreds of royals, some old enough to be grandfathers, all come for the young daughter of Drupada.

Idly, I scan the crowd. The kings of Chedi and Kalinga sit together. I see also the prince of Vidarbha.

Then my eyes settle on a big group.

The Kauravas are as raucous as ever. They have come in full force. Duryodhana sits at their head, haughtily surveying the competition.

Next to him I notice Dushasana and Karna. All my enemies in one camp. If only I were armed!

A sudden hush descends upon the crowd. Drupada is rushing to welcome two men who have just entered. The old king embraces them warmly.

‘Krishna!’ the brahmins around me whisper. ‘The Yadavas are here!’

The man they point to is slender, dark-skinned, with a peacock feather thrust carelessly into his long, black hair. He is smiling.

I recognize the powerfully built man with greying hair next to Krishna. Balarama has aged since I last saw him.

Drupada ushers them in most respectfully, but not towards the suitors. Instead, the king leads them to the area reserved for dignitaries.

As Krishna takes his seat, I see him turn and survey the crowd casually. Does his gaze linger a trifle too long where Arjuna and I sit?

All eyes turn as an inner door opens to reveal a handsome youth. Prince Drishtadyumna has grown into a fine young man indeed.

When Drishtadyumna strides forward, I see the girl behind him. Around me the spectators gasp, then fall silent.

‘Lord,’ I hear Arjuna murmur. ‘She is more beautiful than I imagined!’

Draupadi stands there for a moment, regal in red silk, a golden garland in her hands. Mesmerized, I watch the princess.

She walks in proudly; head high, a half-smile on her lips. Her blue eyes survey the suitors boldly, mischievously.

Drishtadyumna strides to the dais and removes the silk covering. The great bow beneath is of some dull metal, at least seven feet long.

The prince explains the contest. The challenge is to string the bow and bring down the wooden bird swirling high up—with one shot.

The first to try is the king of Kalinga. It soon becomes obvious the challenge is as much the bow as the target itself.

It is with great effort that the middle-aged king wrestles the bow upright. Perspiration shines on his brow as he pauses for breath.

The bow wriggles in his hold when he attempts to string it. Caught unawares, the king staggers. Falls. The bow crashes down on him.

I look at Arjuna and see the same realization on his face: the bow has been constructed in a manner that deliberately upsets its balance.

The next contestants prove me right. One by one they try, they fail. Duryodhana lifts the bow only to his waist before admitting defeat.

After a long line of defeats, just as I think Arjuna should try his luck, I hear the announcer cry out: ‘Karna, the king of Anga!’