The Great Indian Novel (65 page)

Even the full moon could not be seen on its appointed night. Instead the
koyals,
songbirds once, never stopped crowing; cows brayed like donkeys and whelped mules rather than calves; and jackals howled in the streets as if they belonged to the houses of Hastinapur rather than to the jungles surrounding it.

I could see, even in my sleep, that the process could not be overcome; it could only be escaped from. In the distant hills overlooking Hastinapur loomed the snow-covered top of a gleaming mountain, and from it, a celestial peace on their visages, Gangaji, Dhritarashtra and Pandu smiled and beckoned. From the debris of the town, looking up at that shining light on the mountain, our recent protagonists decided to embark on the ascent.

They had not even begun their march when Krishna fell to the ground, a deep wound oozing in his heel. He clutched his foot, his face contorted in agony. ‘I cannot move,’ he gasped. Krishna’s dark features were sallow with pain. ‘I can sit, I can speak, I can give you advice, but I cannot walk on with you. Go without me.’

And so, as the others sorrowfully turned away, Krishna’s life oozed into the earth of my dream. And a voice from the mountain-top echoed in my mind: ‘He could have prevented all this, but he chose not to act. He remained content with his little fief, giving advice and verse to Arjun, and then went back to his comforts and allowed all this to happen. India has too many Krishnas. His brilliance burned itself out without illuminating the country. He cannot reach the top.’

Leaving him behind, the others set out across rock and ravine, valley and hill, towards the foot of the mountain. A little dog attached itself to them, and trotted beside Yudhishtir. Onward they walked, then upward, till each step seemed unbearably heavy and the thin air rasped in their lungs. Then Draupadi collapsed to the ground.

‘Why her?’ I asked the faceless voice in my dream.

‘Democracy always falters first,’ came the echo. ‘She can only be sustained by the strength of her husbands. Their weakness is her fatal flaw. She cannot endure to the mountain-top.’

The others walked on After hours of trudging through the mire of my mind, Sahadev stumbled and fell. In my dream, I no longer needed to ask the question: the unseen voice answered the unspoken query.

‘He knew what was right, but did nothing with his knowledge,’ it said. ‘He stayed outside the country, saw its greatness and its failings in perspective, but did not involve himself in its true struggle for survival. He cannot stride to the mountain-top.’

Nakul was the next to give up.

‘He was too willing to serve institutions rather than values. Dharma consists of more than just doing one’s duty as narrowly defined by one’s immediate job. There is a larger duty, a duty to a greater cause, that Nakul ignored. He will not see the mountain-top.’

When Arjun fell, I remember the shock radiating even through my dream. But Arjun - the paragon of virtue, who by the unanimous wish of the people succeeded Priya Duryodhani! How can
he
fall?’

‘He believed himself to be perfect,’ resonated the reply, ‘and allowed others to believe it. But India defeats perfection, as the rainclouds obscure the sun. His arrogance tripped him up when his gaze aimed even beyond the peak. He will never get to the mountain-top.’

They were still some way from the crest when Bhim sank heavily to his knees.

‘He protected the Pandavas and the country, but that was not enough. He did not do enough to shield Draupadi Mokrasi from abuse, because he saw himself as only one of her guardians and placed his commitment to his brothers above his commitment to her. He will not stand on the mountain-top.’

Yudhishtir, unflagging, climbed on steadily, alone except for the little dog still trotting by his side. ‘Why him?’ I asked. ‘Yudhishtir, with his priggish morality, his blind insensitivity to others, his willingness to gamble Draupadi away, his self-serving adherence to the letter of honesty rather than its spirit? How can he be allowed to climb on when all the others have fallen?’

The voice seemed surprised by the question. ‘But he was true to himself throughout,’ it said. ‘He was true to dharma.’

And indeed, Yudhishtir at last reached the top of the mountain, and looked around him, seeing the peaks and the valleys below, at a level with the fluffy white clouds that floated past like gossamer from nature’s veil.

One of the clouds swooped down upon him in my dream. Upon it was seated a splendid figure of godlike magnificence, wearing a golden crown on his smooth and unwrinkled brow.

‘I am Kaalam, the god of Time,’ he said with a dazzling smile. ‘You have reached the mountain-top, Yudhishtir; your time has come. Mount my chariot with me and let us travel to the court of History.’

‘I am greatly honoured,’ our hero replied. ‘May this dog come with me?’

‘No, he may not,’ Kaalam said with some distaste. ‘History has no place for dogs. Come, we must hurry.’

‘I am sorry,’ Yudhishtir pursed his lips. ‘This dog has been my faithful companion throughout my long ascent. I cannot abandon him now that I have reached the top.’

‘Then I shall have to leave without you,’ Kaalam said impatiently.

‘Leave then, if you must,’ Yudhishtir’s jaw was set. ‘I shall not come without the dog. It would not be dharma to repay devotion in this manner.’

‘You must be crazy,’ Kaalam exclaimed. ‘You wish to turn down a place in history for the sake of a mere dog? A creature associated with unclean things, in whose presence no meal is eaten, no ritual performed? How did the noble and upright Yudhishtir form such a peculiar attachment?’

‘I have never forsaken any person or creature who has been faithful to me,’ Yudhishtir said. ‘I will not start now. Goodbye.’

And as he looked down at the little dog, it transformed itself, in my dream, into the resplendent Dharma, god of justice and righteousness. Yudhishtir’s true father.

‘You have passed the test, my son,’ Dharma proclaimed. ‘Come with me to claim History’s reward.’

The three of them boarded Kaalam’s cloudy chariot and floated serenely to History’s court. There Yudhishtir had his first shock: for seated on a golden throne, fanned by nubile attendants, sat his late tormentor, Priya Duryodhani.

‘I don’t understand,’ he stammered when he had caught his breath. ‘This tyrant, this destroyer of people and institutions, this persecutor of truth and democracy, seated like this on a golden throne? I do not wish to see her face! Take me to where my brothers are, where Draupadi is.’

‘History’s judgements are not so easily made, my son,’ Dharma replied. ‘To some, Duryodhani is a revered figure, a saviour of India, a Joan of Arc burned at the democratic stake by the ignorant and the prejudiced. Abandon your old bitterness here, Yudhishtir. There are no enmities at History’s court.’

‘Where are my brothers?’ Yudhishtir asked stubbornly. ‘And my pure and long-suffering wife? Why don’t I see them here, where Duryodhani holds court?’

‘They are in a separate place, my son,’ said Dharma. ‘If that is where you wish to go, I shall take you.’

He led Yudhishtir down a rough and pitted pathway, over rubble and broken glass. The pair picked their way through brambles and strings of barbed wire, past rotting vegetation and smouldering pyres. Yudhishtir braved the smoke, the increasing heat, the stench of animal decomposition. Mosquitoes buzzed about his ears. His feet struck rock and sometimes bone. But still, in my dream, he trudged unwaveringly on.

Dharma stopped suddenly. ‘Here we are,’ he said, though they seemed to have arrived nowhere in particular. The darkness closed in round Yudhishtir like the clammy hands of a cadaver. Despite the intense heat, he shivered.

And then a wail rose around him from the darkness, a cry joined by another and yet another, until Yudhishtir’s mind and mine seemed nothing but the echo-chamber for a plaintive, continuous lament. As it went on he could make out the voices begging pitifully for his help - Bhim’s, Arjun’s, the twins’, even Draupadi’s . . .

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he burst out. ‘Why are my brothers and my wife here, in this foul blackness, while Duryodhani enjoys the luxuries of posthumous adulation? Have I gone mad, or has the world ceased to mean anything?’

‘You are quite sane, my son,’ Dharma said calmly. ‘And you can prove your sanity by leaving this noxious place with me. I only brought you here because you asked for it. You do not belong here, Yudhishtir.’

‘But nor do they!’ Yudhishtir expostulated. ‘What wrong have they done that they should suffer like this? Go - I shall stay with them, and share their unmerited suffering.’

At these words, the darkness lifted, the filth and the stench disappeared. Yudhishtir’s brow was cooled by a gentle breeze and his senses calmed by a fragrant aroma of freshly flowering blossoms, as his eyes opened to a refulgent assembly of personages from our story.

Yes, Ganapathi, they were all there in my dream: gentle Draupadi and genteel Drewpad, boisterous Bhim and blustery Sir Richard, grim Gandhari and grimacing Shikhandin; the Karnistanis and the Kauravas; the British and the brutish; pale Pandu embracing his wives; blind Dhritarashtra and blond Georgina. And they were smiling, and laughing, and clapping. ‘You have passed your last test, Yudhishtir!’ Dharma proclaimed. ‘It was all an illusion, my son. You will no more be condemned to an eternity of misery than Duryodhani will enjoy perpetual contentment. Everyone must have at least a glimpse of the other world; the fortunate man samples hell first, the better to enjoy the taste of paradise that follows. All those you see around you have passed through these portals before; tomorrow you will stand amongst them to greet a new entrant as he comes in. And the illusions will go on.’

‘The tests you put me through,’ Yudhishtir asked, frowning. ‘Has everyone here gone through them?’

‘Yes, but very few have passed them as you have,’ Dharma said.

‘And what were they meant to prove?’

‘Prove?’ Dharma seemed vaguely puzzled. ‘Only the eternal importance of dharma.’

‘To what end? If it makes no difference to all these people, who all have their place here . . .’

‘Everyone,’
Dharma said, ‘finds his place in history, even those who have failed to observe dharma. But it is essential to recognize virtue and righteousness, and to praise him who, like yourself, has consistently upheld dharma.’

‘Why?’ Yudhishtir asked.

‘What do you mean,’ Dharma replied irritably, ‘ “why”?’

‘I mean why?’ Yudhishtir replied, addressing everyone gathered before him. ‘What purpose has it served? Has my righteousness helped either me, my wife, my family or my country? Does justice prevail in India, or in its history? What has adherence to dharma achieved in our own story?’

‘This is sacrilege,’ his preceptor breathed. ‘If there is one great Indian principle that has been handed down through the ages, it is that of the paramount importance of practising dharma at any price. Life itself is worthless without dharma. Only dharma is eternal.’

‘India is eternal,’ Yudhishtir said. ‘But the dharma appropriate for it at different stages of its evolution has varied. I am sorry, but if there is one thing that is true today, it is that there are no classical verities valid for all time. I believed differently, and have paid the price of being defeated, humiliated, and reduced to irrelevance. It is too late for me to do anything about it: I have had my turn. But for too many generations now we have allowed ourselves to believe India had all the answers, if only it applied them correctly. Now I realize that we don’t even know all the questions.’

‘What are you saying?’ Dharma asked, and Yudhishtir saw to his astonishment that the resplendent deva beside him was changing slowly back into a dog.

‘No more certitudes,’ he called out desperately to the receding figure. ‘Accept doubt and diversity. Let each man live by his own code of conduct, so long as he has one. Derive your standards from the world around you and not from a heritage whose relevance must be constantly tested. Reject equally the sterility of ideologies and the passionate prescriptions of those who think themselves infallible. Uphold decency, worship humanity, affirm the basic values of our people - those which do not change - and leave the rest alone. Admit that there is more than one Truth, more than one Right, more than one dharma . . .’

I woke up to the echo of a vain and frantic barking.

I woke up, Ganapathi, to today’s India. To our land of computers and corruption, of myths and politicians and box-wallahs with moulded plastic briefcases. To an India beset with uncertainties, muddling chaotically through to the twenty-first century.

Your eyebrows and nose, Ganapathi, twist themselves into an elephantine question-mark. Have I, you seem to be asking, come to the end of my story? How forgetful you are: it was just the other day that I told you stories never end, they just continue somewhere else. In the hills and the plains, the hearths and the hearts, of India.

But my last dream, Ganapathi, leaves me with a far more severe problem. If it means anything, anything at all, it means that I have told my story so far from a completely mistaken perspective. I have thought about it, Ganapathi, and I realize I have no choice. I must retell it.

I see the look of dismay on your face. I am sorry, Ganapathi. I shall have a word with my friend Brahm tomorrow. In the meantime, let us begin again.

They tell me India is an underdeveloped country . . .

Afterword

M
any of the characters, incidents and issues in this novel are based on people and events described in the great epic the
Mahabharata,
a work which remains a perennial source of delight and inspiration to millions in India. I am no Sanskrit scholar and have therefore relied only on a highly subjective reading of a variety of English translations of the epic. I should like to acknowledge, in particular, my debt to the versions of C. Rajagopalachari and P. Lal, respectively the most readable renderings of what scholars call the southern and northern rescensions of the work. The two differ sufficiently in approach, style and narrative content to be complementary, even though they both deal with essential aspects of the same story. I have relied greatly on both of them.

While some scenes in
The
Great
Indian
Novel
are recastings of situations described in translations of the
Mahabharata,
I have taken far too many liberties with the epic to associate any of its translators with my sins. Those readers who wish to delve into the
Mahabharata
itself in search of the sources of my inspiration need look no further than Lal’s ‘transcreation’, Rajagopalach-ari’s episodic saga or Prof. J. A. B. Van Buitenen’s scholarly, thorough but incomplete translation for the University of Chicago Press. While this novel was with the publishers I also discovered Jean-Claude Carriere’s stage script of the
Mahabharata
in Peter Brooke’s most readable translation, and recommend it highly. The responsibility for this entirely fictional version is, of course, mine alone.