Dhritarashtra - The Mahabharata Chronicles #10

The Princess shuddered at the old sage’s touch. His wizened fingers were callous and coarse. His face was a grotesque visage of lines deepened by years spent in the wild. The matted hair with tendrils escaping from it reminded her of the gnarled roots of a well-lived tree. She could not believe that the Queen Mother had thrust this nightmare upon her. This; when the mourning period for her dead husband was not even over yet. A small but audible sigh escaped her and she shut her eyes tight, willing the ordeal to be over soon.

The aged sage looked down at her. He could well understand the qualms within her. He was no Gandharva to look at, but then this was what his so-called mother willed and therefore he had no choice. It was a harsh but much needed decision of niyoga to ensure that the lineage of Kurus flourished. However, he was apprehensive of breaking the news to the queen mother. He was thinking of what was the best way to break the news to her, when her summons came.

Satyavati looked at her son, born of sage Parashara, standing in front of her. He had an unsure look on his face. She wondered what could have happened that his expression was such. She had heard the screams and protests of anger and agony from her daughter-in-law, however she had chosen to turn a deaf ear to that, her strong-willed mind intent upon the lineage that would be brought forth through her first-born, if not King Shantanu’s children. With a foreboding that belied her usual self, she beckoned Vyasa to her, and asked him of the outcome.

Krishna Dwaipayana, the dark-skinned one replied thus,

“Of your daughter, Ambika shall be born a great and mighty boy, as strong as ten thousand elephants. He will possess inordinate intellect, abundant vitality and will beget a hundred sons. However, since the princess did the grievance of not opening her eyes when I was with her, the boy so born will be blind. He will be named Dhritarashtra – “one who wields the power of the nation and holds it together.”

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Dhritarashtra wandered the castle aimlessly, his thoughts taking him through the murky annals of his life. The strength of a thousand elephants – Bah! Of what good was immense strength when his own kith and kin looked at him with pity. He remembered the day Vidur, his closest friend and stepbrother had expressed what was uppermost in everyone else’s minds. Nobody else had voiced it out in front of him and none would have had the gumption to, but he had heard the whispered murmurs, and felt the sly glances. Over the years, he had developed a keen sense of hearing, and acute perception. As the eldest of the family, he was the rightful heir to the throne. He had not let his blindness get in his way to proving his capabilities. There was none as strong as he was and as experienced as him in combat warfare, blind as he maybe. He had proven himself worthy of the throne in every aspect. Yet, it was not to be.

He had accepted the decision to crown Pandu as king, with his usual calm demeanor and his head held high. He had found himself, cheering along with the family when the coronation took place. He loved Pandu like none else, he was after all he was his younger brother but deep in his heart, he felt the twinge of jealousy raking its head up every now and then. He wished it were he on that high and mighty throne, looking down on his subjects. Holding high the staff of Hastinapura, proving to everyone that he was the rightful possessor of the rule. Except that, it was not to be. For; a king to be blind was unheard of and considered blasphemous.

When Pandu knelt before him for his blessings, he felt a pang of shame for the thoughts flowing within him and blessed him wholeheartedly, that he would succeed as king. However, the injustice still rankled within him rearing its ugly head once every few instances. He vowed immediately that his sons would not undergo the same agony that he was enduring.

It was with this thought that he agreed to get married to Gandhari, the beautiful princess of Gandhar, one of the vassal states of Hastinapura. He believed that his queen would be whatever he could not be. That she would be his sight and ears and his equal in all rights. However, when the queen found out that her husband was blind, she had taken a red cloth and tied it over her eyes, reasoning that she wanted to share the pain her husband was suffering. He had felt cheated, that he had missed yet another chance; that life had thrown its dice against him yet again. Emboldened by the thought that his hundred sons would soothe his suffering, he kept quiet and continued as the regent king when Pandu renounced the kingdom and left for the forests with his two wives.

For a while having enjoyed the monopoly of power, the threat of having to give up the throne, came back to haunt him when Pandu’s sons and his wife Kunti returned from the forests, after the former’s death. From then on, it had been a rollercoaster ride of sibling rivalry, friction, multiple instances of strife, paltry fights and finally the day it had all come to a standstill – The day of the Game of Dice. For him, that was the day his sons’ fates had been sealed.

Dhritarashtra sat on the huge jewel-encrusted throne. His frame looked diminished as opposed to man who was supposedly the strongest of them all. The most recent emissary from the battlefield had only brought more bad tidings. He had already heard the latest reports of the war from his trusted advisor Sanjaya. He cursed himself for having turned an already blind eye to the errant ways of his sons. He lamented the fact that he was losing his sons one by one each day. He blamed himself for not having been sterner with them when the situation demanded. Deep in his heart, he had known that this was to be expected. This war, this carnage, these deaths, they were all inevitable.

He had caught Krishna alone a few days later after the bloodshed and had bemoaned to him about the cursed life he was leading. He sensed a small smile playing at the corners of Krishna’s lips in the answer the latter gave. He reflected upon himself as Krishna had told him to and became aware of his actions as a tyrant king in one of his many past lives. Giving into a passing whim, he had cruelly gouged out the eyes of a swan he had come across in that life and killed its hundred young cygnets, without any remorse. His mind in a swirl, he dejectedly ruminated that the cycle of karma was finally catching up with him.

And so it was, and so it would be, until the all-consuming thoughts burning inside of him, manifested itself as a forest fire, pervading his present being, freeing him of the torment, bringing along with it the peace and calmness he had been craving for.

His mind filled with the appearance he had begged and pleaded Krishna to show him, until the latter had relented relieving him of his blindness temporarily and granting his wish.

That image, of the Lord Supreme, in all his glory, in his Viswaroopa, would forever be imprinted on his mind.

As also, the enormity of the words his nephew had whispered into his ears before he left;

“The tranquility as well as the turmoil that binds a being to his current existence 

is defined by the ripples of his actions, good and bad, accumulated over his many lives.

One can neither change it nor will it otherwise.

That what is meant to be, will be.”

Ghatotkacha, Son of Bheemasena - The Mahabharata Chronicles #9

I see a bright shaft of light.

It penetrates into me. It engulfs my entire being with its vibrancy. It dulls the ache that I have been carrying in my gut ever since I can remember.

It is always the same dream. Each time towards the break of dawn. Every time the same feeling of peace.

I have pondered much about it. I have asked everyone I could think of about what it means, starting with my mother and all the learned men who passed through my land. The closest I came to getting an answer for what seemed like more as mollification to my incessant questioning was from father’s cousin – Achyutha.

“The answer shall be revealed to you when it’s the right time.”

When the right time was, or how soon it was, he never bothered to expound on it. I put the dream out of my mind, suppressed the dull ache inside of me, and went about my life. And there was nothing that I could about this, now that he had told me to wait. Apparently, self-restraint was something I had to learn yet.

HE was always like that. Enigmatic. Pragmatic. Possessor of many epithets.

Out of all his monikers, my favorite was Achyutha. Meaning the infallible. In my eyes, there was nothing that he did not know and nothing that he could not do. Achyutha was someone I looked up to a lot. He was a father figure and brother all rolled into one.

My father was Bheemasena. Son of the wind god. I had very few chances of spending time with my father who visited us very rarely. Hidimbavana where I grew up was called so after my mother who was reigning queen of the forest. It was a place that humans rarely frequented. My mother, Hidimbaa, brought me up on a steady diet of stories about his valor and prowess. How he vanquished her brother Hidimba, and usurped her heart. How a single shout from him could stun the living daylights out of most living things. Those rare instances that he visited us in the forest, he used to regale me with stories, about the clan that I was a part of, about far-flung lands where evil was wreaking havoc, about his cousins and how they were making things difficult for all of us. These occasional visits always left me craving for more. Sometimes, he brought his brothers along. Those days were fun. I learnt a lot as I was growing up, training with father and uncles, listening to old anecdotes some of which centered on my birth and their experiences in the forests.

Out of all the tales that I heard, my favorite one was the one about my birth. Father told me, rubbing my pate affectionately that they had named me Ghatotkacha because of the round bald pot-like head that I sported. My uncle Arjuna told me how stunned all were when I became an almost full-grown child within the span of a few minutes owing of the rakshasa blood in me. He remarked how they had to use an arrow casing to cut off the umbilical cord because of how strong and thick it was. I liked that story the best of all. It made me proud of how strong I was and filled me with a sense of superiority. I remember commenting to Achyutha that the dull gnawing in my stomach was probably because of the arrow casing they used. He would look at me in a strange way and then pull my leg saying that it was probably because of hunger and tease me calling me a glutton. Momentary though it was, I could never discern what that gleam in his eyes was.

My life in the forest passed quite uneventfully, except for these rare bouts of our family get-togethers. When I matured into a full-grown rakshasa, mother handed over the rule of the forest to me. She only gave me a very crucial piece of advice. To always, serve my father, regardless of what he asked me to do. She secured a promise from me that I would always attend to my father’s summons any time, whenever he thought of me irrespective of day or night. I only received his summons twice ever in my life. Once when he and his brothers, along with grandmother Kunti and Draupadi ma, were on a forest pilgrimage and stranded upon a mountain, tired from the journey.

The other, during the war at Kurukshetra.

The second time I sensed my father’s summons, I remember my mother eyeing at me with a look akin to apprehension upon her striking features. I asked her what was worrying her and she said that I was at last going to receive answers to my queries. It filled me with a sense of foreboding, yet as I took leave of her, I fell at her feet seeking her blessings. She blessed me that my fame and recognition would spread far and wide because of my abilities on the field.  I kissed my son and wife, and left them to the protection of my clan and proceeded to answer my father’s summons.

Kurukshetra was a place like none other. I fumed as I stood on the battlefield and surveyed the damage wrought by kin and brethren upon each other. My entire being filled with rage as I saw the amount of destruction that was lying in front of my eyes. I saw my eldest uncle, whose favorite I was, slumped in his chariot, unable to see the carnage. I saw my cousin’s frail body, elegant even in death, held by Arjuna, seemingly stunned at the demise of his progeny. I then saw my father. He was looking up at me. I saw in his eyes a fear and a worry for having brought me in to the field. I sensed in him the burden that he was forced to bear seeking for my support yet fearing for my life much like Abhimanyu’s. Then quite suddenly, I felt a calming presence next to me. I turned to see Achyutha, standing beside me, his eyes filled with tears. In all my life, I had never seen HIM like this. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. Yet I knew what he wanted to say. For once, I knew his words even before he spoke them.

It was turning dark. The sun had gone down and now it was time for the first son of the Pandavas to take the limelight. I grew to my full size, summoned all my powers and started smashing the Kaurava army to smithereens. I spared no man and no beast. I turned savage, calling upon the rakshasa blood in me.

[Pic Courtesy - http://molee.deviantart.com/]

And then I saw him. Scion of Surya. Holding in his hands the arrow that was destined to destroy the hopes of the Pandavas. The one that Karna was saving for Arjuna, Indra’s weapon, the Shakti.

I glanced at Achyutha. I saw that his eyes were downcast; his shoulders slumped with the agony of what was in his mind. He sensed me eyeing him, looked up at me and raised his hands in a benevolent gesture.

I nodded my head to show that I understood. I had no regrets. If this was what my Achyutha wanted for me, I would gladly take it, no questions asked.

I heard the twang of Karna’s bow and saw him fitting the arrow to it.

I expected to see death staring at my face, but to my surprise, I felt a tug in my gut. This was it. I knew. My moment of truth.

I have saved the Pandavas and my clan from imminent defeat. I have left my mark on this world and this battlefield. I sent a silent thought to my mother, wife and my son, looked up to the heavens, grew to the most gargantuan size that I could muster and turned to face my adversary.

I see the Shakti in all its glory. It is now a bright shaft of light. It seeks to permeate me. It strives to dull the ache in my gut.

Over the horizon, I see the sun starting his ascent. The streak of dawn is now a vivid orange.

The shaft found its mark and its energy engulfed me.

Somewhere I heard HIS voice;

“The casing that Arjuna used when you were born belonged to the arrow. Try as we did, we could not stop it from entering your navel when we cut off the umbilical cord. The arrow has found its home at last.  This is how it was to be. This is how it is supposed to conclude.”

I smiled. I had now gotten the answers to my incessant questions.  

Finally, I am at peace. 

Vrikodara - The Mahabharata Chronicles #8

A woman on the battlefield was unheard of. However, he did not care. He was about to fulfill one of his vows today. It had been a long wait.

He slowly took her arm and led her onto the battleground. Reverentially, he seated her on a broken chariot, pointed at the almost dead inert body lying close to it.

She looked at the broken man lying drenched in blood, the man who had tried to disrobe her that shameful day. She averted her gaze for fear that her wrath would burn him to ashes and looked up at the one who had brought her onto the battlefield. He folded his hands deferentially towards her, and looked back at the man who was aware of the fate that awaited him.  

With a huge savage cry, he rushed towards him, and tore out his entrails in a beastly manner and proceeded to wash her hair with the blood on his hands. He did it with a veneration bordering on worship, almost trance-like, a devotee appeasing his Goddess.

She sat there, rigid as an idol, basking in the adulation showered upon her. Heaving a sigh of contentment, she looked at him, cupped his face in her hands and gazed at him.

He had never failed her.  She reveled with pride in the fact that he never would.

----- X -----

Krishna observed the sight unfolding in front of his eyes. Everyone around were but, mute spectators to whatever was happening. He watched silently, as the embodiment of the Wind-God, knelt before the personification of the Goddess. He watched the devotion, the child-like adoration on Vrikodara’s face when he was propitiating Krishnaa.

Vrikodara.

The one with a wolf’s belly. The strongest of all Pandavas. The gentle giant.

                                                                                     [Pic Couresty: http://molee.deviantart.com/

He had neither Yudhisthira’s steady demeanor nor Arjuna’s single-mindedness. He was someone who swung between extremes, someone who was prone to wild flashes of mood swings, gusts of emotions. He had his own concepts of Dharma and Karma and usually insisted on immediate payback, unlike the other brothers who would wait for the most opportune moment to strike back or retaliate. He was someone who could not stand the very sight of injustice irrespective of whomsoever it was meted out to. In spite of all this, he was most often the gentlest of all. The epitome of humility. Narayana’s staunchest devotee. And the most fun to be with because of his unpredictable nature.

There was however, one thing that was predictable about him.

Draupadi.

Like everyone else before him, and as everyone else after him, he had succumbed to her charms as well. Everybody knew that Bheema was silly putty in Draupadi’s hands. All she had to do was ask him something, and he would do it no questions asked. Whether it was the quest for the Saugandhika flowers or Keechaka’s death, it was Bheema Draupadi had turned to, for she knew that, he would never fail her, even while the others did; citing reasons that bordered on excuses. He was the only one to raise his voice against the happenings on that dreadful day in the court sabha; he was the one who had sworn that the death of all of Kali’s followers would be at his hands. And slowly yet steadily, he was getting there.

----- X -----

Bheema looked around. His shoulders sagged with the sights in front of him. The blood, the carnage, the destruction, the devastation and the deaths. He was single-handedly responsible for half of the destruction that lay before their eyes. The war had taken a great deal out of him. He had lost a lot to it as well. The deaths of his son and nephew weighed upon his being. The fratricide he had committed had taken its toll on him.

He looked up at Krishna.

He saw Krishna gazing back at him, a world of understanding in his benevolent gaze.

----- X -----

Krishna knew.

Out of all the Pandava brothers, Bheema was the only one who understood the true need for the war. He was the only one who had never questioned on why this war should happen. He was the one who looked beyond the materialistic gains that this war would bring forth and recognized the bigger picture and the ramifications of this battle. With unwavering faith and belief on Krishna, Bheema had stood steadfast in his opinion that the war should ensue.

To the rest of the world, Bheema was fulfilling his vows, his pledges to Draupadi. Presumably as an act of true love. However, Krishna knew that Bheema had long before moved beyond his assertions of love for Draupadi. Bheema had come to the realization that in Draupadi’s eyes; he would always be second best, maybe even third best. He had become aware that for her, he was only a means; that the temptation of her love was only a lure, a means to a greater end. He had also accepted this fact in all humility, as he understood the reasoning behind it. Enlightened that Draupadi was Goddess incarnate and his way forward was to serve her and help in the cleansing of evil from the world, he had taken it upon himself to ensure that he was pivotal in the destruction of all of evil’s personifications. In that sense alone, he was the true hero of the Mahabharata war.

----- X -----

Vrikodara knew that his job was far from done. There was a lot more to come. He was however a step closer to that final rung.

He looked up at Duryodhana standing afar, shock in his eyes at his beloved brother’s gruesome death at the hands of his worst enemy. One by one, he had picked off and killed all the Kaurava brethren until only the eldest of them all was standing. Signaling to the Duryodhana that he was next, he held up his conch, Paundra, and blew into it deeply.

He had made the first strike in this war.

The last strike would be his as well.

----- X -----

Ashwatthama, the Chiranjeevi - The Mahabharata Chronicles #5

“I infuse thee, this blade of grass, 

with the power of the Brahmastra, 

for the annihilation of the Pandavas and Krishna.”

I hear these words that I uttered, ringing inside my ears, as if it happened yesterday.

I see the blade of grass, infused with the weapon of destruction, hurtling towards the group of warriors gathered at the ashram of Sage Vyasa - the warriors who had come in search of me, to extract their revenge.

I feel the rage that coursed through me then, for all the slaughter, the deceit, and the genocide that took place over the last eighteen days.

And I feel the helplessness that surged through me, when I redirected the weapon to the womb of Uttara, the unborn heir of Abhimanyu, and the future of the Pandava lineage.

3000 years thence, I roam these lands paying the price for my heinous act, living a cursed life, trapped in a body filled with pus, sores, and diseases, waiting for the so-called judgement day, the end of Kali Yuga – the age of darkness.

I do not seek forgiveness nor do I feel remorse or repentance for my deeds anymore.

For I know that all these were preordained. For I understand this is how this magnum opus is meant to be played out. 

Know me as Ashwatthama, the Chiranjeevi – partial incarnation of Lord Rudra, named so because I neighed like a horse at birth.

                                                                                           [Pic Couresty: http://molee.deviantart.com/]

I, who was born as a Brahmin, but was drawn towards the life of a Kshatriya.

Progeny of the famous Acharya, Guru Drona, who always preferred Arjuna’s skill to mine. Comrade to the Kaurava heir, Duryodhana, who always favoured Karna’s friendship over mine. 

Master of astras and shastras, and once upon a Yuga, the possessor of a famed jewel.

The jewel that I was born with. The jewel that adorned my forehead and protected me from diseases, fear, and enemies. The jewel that was prised from me for my monstrous act.

The act of destroying the lineage of the Pandavas.

My life as I knew it had always been encumbered with wants, longings, and desires. Filled with instances of people’s derision of our lifestyle, I do not remember anything about my childhood apart from our impoverished existence, until Father became Acharya to the Kuru princes.  However, the fact that we were still at the mercy of others always irked me. Even as a friend of the Kauravas, I never could feel equal to them. Even though none of them said so explicitly, there was always a difference. Always a thin line that demarcated me from them, because I was the son of their Acharya.

I remember the early days of learning where Father favoured me over his new students. By virtue of being his son, he taught me mantras and weapons that he did not impart to the others. He was partial to me until his favouritism found a new heir. Arjuna.

Arjuna, to whom Father imparted all his skills and knowledge. Arjuna, who soon impressed his Guru with his dedication and sincerity to learn and become the world’s best archer. Arjuna, who became Father’s prized pupil. Arjuna, who got my Father’s attention and affection, the care that I yearned for.

Father was not happy about the fact that I was friendlier with the Kauravas than with his preferred Pandavas. However, I felt more at home with the high-spirited Kauravas rather than the virtuous sons of Kunti. Sometimes, at night, when he thought I was asleep, I could hear him pour his grievances to Mother about how I was falling into bad company, and how he wished that I were more like Arjuna, instead of following Duryodhana around. Yet, as much as he slighted my choice of friends, he would sit near my head, stroke my hair, and hold my hand, weeping silent tears, while I pretended to be asleep. These instances of paternal affection, though few and rare, made me happy and filled me with warmth, though they also hardened my jealousy of Arjuna. I knew he loved me more than anyone else in the world. I knew all that he was undertaking, was for my happiness and well-being. Yet, I was never able to get over the fact that he believed I was not as skilled as Arjuna. I was never able to accept the fact that Arjuna was getting the concern and the attention that I thought I deserved.

That night when I butchered the Pandava camp, with the Chandrahaas in my hand, it was as though the Mahadev himself had entered my body and led me to avenge the fallen of our camp including Father. I did not think twice before I sneaked into their camp and slew them all. There was only one thought on my mind then – to retaliate. To avenge my kith and kin. To make the enemy pay for what they had done including killing my Father. When I realized later, that I had killed not the Pandavas but their sons, I was contrite and headed towards Sage Vyasa’s ashram where I intended to do penance and calm my mind. However, when I saw Arjuna along with the rest of the Pandavas, charging towards me with retribution on their minds, my anger knew no bounds. I invoked the Brahmastra and uttered those ominous words;

“I infuse thee, this blade of grass, 

with the power of the Brahmastra, 

for the annihilation of the Pandavas and Krishna.”

I knew that Arjuna would invoke an astra to counter mine and he did. But when ordered by Vyasa Maharishi to recall the weapons, I was unable to, unlike Arjuna. I was unable to recall the astra that my Father had taught me because he had not trusted me enough with the knowledge to recall the astra. He had revealed to me only partial knowledge of invoking the astra, while imparting the full knowledge of the astra to his favoured pupil – Arjuna.

Overridden yet again by partiality, filled with a sense of helplessness and driven by jealousy and rage, I redirected the weapon to the womb of Uttara, towards the unborn heir of Abhimanyu, and the future of the Pandava lineage. Condemned for this cowardly and dastardly act, I roam these lands now, cursed to live the life of a leper, unloved and castaway by all, awaiting redemption.

The bloodshed of the Great War that I was a part of was prophesied during the Ksheerasagara Madhanam, the churning of the great ocean of milk. Springing forth from the Halahal that Lord Mahadev drank, to save the universe, the Vish-Purush that I embodied, was blessed so, stating I would kill brutal Kshatriyas during the Dwapara Yuga.

I was born therefore, as Ashwatthama, one of the chiranjeevis, in the lineage of the great sage Bharadwaj.

I was birthed as a Brahmin. I lived as a Kshatriya. And I am condemned as a slayer.

For all these were preordained. For this is how this magnum opus is meant to be played out.

I have executed my part to perfection and now, I await the warrior with his blazing sword on his great white steed, to grant me deliverance.

To usher me into the Satya Yuga, to the start of time again, wherein, I shall be honoured as a Saptarishi.

For this is the circle of my life, with no beginning and with no end.  

Shakuni, Prince of Gandhar - The Mahabharata Chronicles #4

He walked along the corridors of the palace, deep in thought. Things were not looking good. The Pitamah and his crony, Vidura were getting suspicious of him. He could sense the distrust; sometimes even see it in their eyes. Something had to be done before things got out of hand. Something really subtle, yet potent.

He remembered his latest meeting with them. They had admonished him again to keep away from his nephews. They had not minced any words either when they ordered him to head back to his own kingdom. He had bristled at that thought. His eyes glinted with malice. But as always, he had kept his sentiments to himself and meekly mumbled something about missing his sister too much. He had also added for good measure, that his kingdom was being well run even in his absence. And as always, Bhishma had looked straight into his eyes, with that discerning stare of his, as if he knew exactly what was going on in his mind.

He loathed the Pitamah. Ever since, his sister had been forced to marry the blind king, and she had taken upon herself the oath to bind her eyes as well, his dislike of the grand-sire had just increased. She didn’t deserve this life.

Gandhari. His sister. Princess of Gandhar. A lady of great perseverance. A true Kshatriya Princess. The determination in her was a given. It was evident in her manner of speaking, in her bearing. The way she carried herself, you could see that she was of high patronage and that it was royal blood that flowed in her veins. Wooed and courted by various princes from the surrounding kingdoms, she was a great queen in the making.

Shakuni had always admired his sister. She was his favourite and he hers. As a kid, when Hastinapura had laid siege and slaughtered the kingdom of Gandhar, his entire clan had nearly been wiped out. Brother and sister had sought out each other then and she was the one who had protected him and whispered soothing words to calm his frightened self. Years later when Bhishma had brought forth the proposal to his father for her to be wedded to Dhritharashtra, the blind king, he had ranted and raved. He had even gone to the extent of waging a war again. He did not want his sister to marry a blind king especially one from the Kuru clan, however strong and good-hearted he was. His sister however begged to differ. She had seen what had ensued the previous time her father had refused to accept Hastinapura’s conditions. Worried that she may have to witness a bloodbath again and losing too much in the prospect, she had agreed to marry the blind king. But she didn’t do so silently. Under the reasoning that she wanted to share the pain her husband was suffering, she took a red cloth and tied her eyes, to shut herself out from the world. For the rest of her life she would be so.

His sister’s action was a message to the young boy. He knew that she didn’t agree willingly. He knew that even before setting her eyes on the Kuru prince, she had blindfolded herself. He wanted to retaliate. He wanted to avenge the humiliation that his clan was undergoing at the hands of the Kuru family. He swore to bring about the downfall of the entire line of Kurus. And to ensure that they knew what the agony of seeing their loved ones suffer was.

                                                                                                                   [Pic Couresty: http://molee.deviantart.com/]

Master of sorcery, skilled dice player, black magic aficionado, and a mind-game expert, he had planted himself into the folds of the Kuru family, first as a brother who couldn’t stay apart from his sister, and then as a well-wisher to the sons of his sister – his nephews. Mastermind that he was, slowly he had poisoned the young and hapless minds of the young kids. He found himself in a fix when he realized that the kids would always follow their eldest brother. But then, Kunti had come back to the palace from the forest, with her five sons and he had gotten his golden chance. Steadily, he had created an air of uneasiness in the minds of the young Kauravas about their cousins. It had worked exceptionally well and much more than he had expected. The rest of Gandhari’s sons had just followed. And thus an everlasting animosity was born.

Over the years he had slowly instigated the cousins vehemently against each other much to the displeasure of the family elders and sometimes even his sister. However, the thirst for revenge was stronger than ever and he was unshaken in his quest. He always made sure that none could squarely place the blame on him for any mishap and had always stayed in the background ministering his intentions through the Kaurava brothers.

Standing at the side-lines, he had ensured that there were planned attempts on the lives of the “kind-hearted children of Pandu” and that the source of the blame always rebounded to the “malevolent children of Gandhari”. Working hard and ably, using his wiliness and sorcery, he had strengthened his hold over the 100 sons of Gandhari.  He had unhurriedly created an aura of evilness around the entire clan. It wasn’t that he liked Kunti’s sons any better. His plan was to ensure that the entire line of the Kurus perished.

But now, he could feel the Pitamah’s eagle eyes on him all the time. He knew that the old man was wary of him and always kept watch over him cagily. He needed to act soon. He needed to plan something that could strike terror in the hearts of the Kurus.

And then he got his opportunity.

He learnt that Duryodhana had been insulted at the Indraprastha palace by Draupadi and he was seething. He realized that if he planned this right, he could start something that snowball into the climax that he had always envisioned. He soothed and rubbed his eldest nephew’s shoulders all the while guaranteeing that he would have a chance at revenge soon. And imperceptibly he told Duryodhana of his strategy.

Invite the Pandavas to Hastinapura for a friendly game of dice. Let Yudhishthira play for the Pandavas while he played on behalf of the Kauravas. And then behold the scene that unfolds.

The plan was put in place. The invitations were sent out and accepted. The whole family would be gathered to see the debacle that would befall them.

It was all coming together now.

He rubbed his hands in glee. Smiled wickedly.

Threw his favoured dice into the air. The dice that never disobeyed him. The dice that he had fashioned and imbued with vengeance against the Kuru family. The dice that would wreak havoc and make a mockery of the family that he despised.

This was his chance. His ultimate gamble. The one that he knew he could never lose.

He knew the rules of the game. And he played them better than anyone else.

         

“Two sixes” he called out.

Two sixes fell.