Ajaya: Duryodhana's Mahabharata - Collector's Edition

by Anand Neelakantan

“there is no caste for hunger and thirst. Blessed are you for putting the interests of a thirsty man before your own safety.”

His flaws make him human and believable, unlike the protagonists, who wrap themselves in a cloak of dharma, miracles, and divinity, to justify their actions.

Shankara convinced Mandana that the rituals for the dead had little value to the dead.

“The rituals are not for the dead but for the loved ones left behind.”

We have no concept of blasphemy. This openness to criticism is what makes the Hindu religion and its traditions unique. Vyasa did not hide Krishna’s faults, nor did Valmiki remain silent on Rama’s shortcomings. This openness to debate and discussion has helped us evolve over time and withstand thousands of years of foreign rule, reforming as the times demanded.

iti te jñānam ākhyātam guhyād guhyataram mayā vimriśyaitad aśeshena yathecchasi tathā kuru [I have given you the most confidential of all knowledge. Analyze it critically and act as per your wish and understanding.]

vimriśyaitad aśeshena yathecchasi tathā kuru [Analyze it critically and act as per your wish and understanding.]

Ekalavya got a not-so-ripe one. The favouritism was nothing new to him but it still hurt. He was determined not to cry over such things. He was ten years old now and almost a man. Men did not cry over silly things.

Ekalavya was old enough to know that was not true. He had seen so many others like themselves, living in the shadows of a great civilization, meek before their superiors, while ferociously competitive and cruel to their fellow unfortunates.

Ten years as an Untouchable Nishada had taught him more about life and human nature than many older men learnt who were fortunate enough to be born into the right caste.

Suyodhana reminded Drona of his brother-in-law, Kripa, except that the lad had greater willpower. The boy questioned everything. His doubts were mostly unanswerable. He made Drona feel inadequate. So Drona reacted with the viciousness that only teachers are capable of towards students they do not like.

He wanted to crush the boy’s rebellious spirit and mellow him so he would to fit into society. Drona knew instinctively that such spirit in a powerful person could only bring about disaster. If the wild forces in the boy were not tamed, he could shake the country and impose his will on it. As a teacher, Drona considered it his duty to mould his students to fit into society. Teaching was not about making rebels who would challenge and change the established order.

He was sure that ultimately everybody, including the Gods and god men, conspired to pull down such rebels and crush them into the dust. That was what the history of this country had taught him. The rise and fall of men like Ravana, Bali, and Mahabali, were incontrovertible proof of this. Society was sanathana, eternal and unchanging. Rebels and reformers had only one place to go in such a country, and the Gods took on avatars to grind such rebels into the dust. That was dharma – to protect which, they took human birth.

Life is a gamble. You do not know how the dice will fall. But once they have, how you move the pieces is in your hands. It is mere chance that you were not born a Kshatriya or Brahmin. You could have been born Nishada or Naga, and then your Suta home would have looked like a palace. The die has been cast and you cannot do anything about it. But you can choose to be a Brahmin or Kshatriya or Nishada or anything you want.”

“If we go strictly by the Vedas, a Brahmin is one who has sought and found brahma; one who has found God within himself, in his thoughts, gained through knowledge. Do Drona or I look like we have found God? I cannot even find the way to my house on most days! A Kshatriya is supposed to be one who has found God in action, by doing his duty. A Vaishya is one who has found God in trade, by creating wealth; and a Shudra is one who has found God in love, by serving society. It has nothing to do with where or to whom anyone is born. You could be the Shudra son of a Brahmin father or vice versa. Whatever the silly Priests say, nowhere in any of our scriptures is it written that any one way of finding God is better than all the others. They do not even say that finding God is better than not doing so. The Vedic mind wonders about the mysteries of creation and the universe, but it does not speak in the voice of absolute truth. The Vedas merely hold the wonder of Man regarding the universe in which he lives.”

“The Vedas are clear about society. For society to have balance, all four varnas are required. Knowledge, thought, direction, action, power, leadership, wealth, money, art, love – are like the organs of the body. One cannot say only one is important. That is why it is said the four varnas are the four parts of Brahma. You may have heard pseudo-Brahmins boasting of how they emerged from Brahma’s head; the Kshatriyas from his arms; the Vaishyas from his thighs.” Kripa paused and smiled at Karna. “And...” “And Shudras like me originated from the feet of God,” Karna said, looking straight at the Brahmin. “Feeling glum about it, are we Karna?” laughed Kripa, lifting an eyebrow in his own inimitable style. “Our scriptures used this allegory to show that each varna is equally important. But see what is happening now. The head is claiming that only it is important. How stupid! Without the heart, the head is dead. Without hands, the body cannot act, and without thighs, the legs will not remain connected to the body or move. Now the head is claiming that it does not need the legs! The head has become rotten with no exercise. Instead, it has ordered the heart to cut off the blood supply to the legs. Hence, society is incapable of going anywhere. The arms just flay and occasionally beat each other. Sometimes they clap and make loud noises, but it means nothing. The head produces some smritis, useless philosophical speculations and rituals, but nothing else. It has stopped producing an...

“That is another misinterpretation. What is moksha? It is finding happiness in life. Nothing more, nothing less. The rest is pure speculation. You should meet my friend, Carvaka. He will explain these things better than I can. If you think you can find happiness in life only by becoming a warrior, then that is what you should strive for. There should not be an iota of doubt in your mind. No guru or scripture can stop you if you are determined to fight for your goals.”

There are people who will offer you many things and demand nothing in return. Fear them the most, for they are the ones who will take the things that are most precious to you and then their demands will come at a time when it is most inconvenient to you.

When our schools fail to teach our children what they should know, other schools take their place and teach different lessons, which we may not like. We are building our own funeral pyre.”

Life did not care about the theories the two Gurus were bickering about. Life moved on, irrespective of philosophy, despite the Gods and the thoughts of men.

When an arrow was shot with skill, it did not ask whether the hands that held the bow were those of an Untouchable or a Prince. They pierced their targets without prejudice.

Except for one or two, who looked a little better off, the captives belonged to the striving lower middle class. They were unimaginative, petty, hardworking, honest city folk – the rulers of boredom and monotony, tyrants in their humble homes but meek and submissive outside. There was a look of pure terror in their eyes.

“No wonder you hate violence, Suyodhana! Non-violence is the first defence of the coward,”

Suyodhana was a good man and Ekalavya was happy for him. But he knew such joy and real life rarely went together. No self-respecting God would allow a good man to be happy for long. God has relevance only in the unhappiness of good people.

Kripa and Aswathama chanted the most sacred of all mantras – the Gayatri – before all. Did the fools not know it had to be kept secret? That no ears other than those of a Brahmin, could hear it? Did not the smritis say that molten lead had to be poured into the ears of Shudras or women who heard it, even accidentally?

She knew that doing the right thing never went unpunished.

When Jarasandha fell again, he expected Bhima to rush for his neck and was ready. Surprising him, the Pandava caught his right leg and pinned Jarasandha to the ground by placing his huge feet on the fallen King’s left leg. Then, using his massive strength, he started tearing Jarasandha in two, from the groin. Jarasandha screamed in agony as inch by inch, Bhima tore him apart. The great Jarasandha, the man who had attacked Mathura seventeen times and caused Krishna and Balarama to flee to Dwaraka, the man who had dared challenge orthodoxy and the holy smritis by building and running a kingdom based on merit and not caste, died slowly and painfully for all his sins.

These were neither thinkers nor philosophers, but petty traders who sold their God for money. They stopped Vidhura and Karna from entering the sanctum sanctorum, saying they were Shudras. But having received their pieces of silver, they moved aside. They chanted mantras without knowing what they meant and invented extempore stories, attributing them to the Puranas to justify what they did. They were obsessed with ritual purity and their own superiority, yet the city and river was littered with filth. They thrived on death like vultures. They fattened themselves on the guilt of those who had lost their loved ones. They threw half-burned bodies into the Ganga to save firewood and maximize profit. Death was a thriving industry in the holiest city of India. No enemy of the country could have treated the holy river worse, even though its waters were sacred to all races and castes from the Himalayas to the southern seas. Yet they considered themselves pious and treated others with contempt.

Suyodhana chased after Aswathama as his friend ducked and weaved through the crowd. People were staring at them. Suyodhana knew they were behaving like idiots. Their gaiety and laughter was sure to look like a mockery of tradition and custom to pious believers. People came to Kashi from all over India to die, and here they were brimming with life and laughter.

Suyodhana was glad not to have won his wife in a contest like a trophy or a prize cow.

Kunti walked away, trembling with anger, leaving Gandhari to feel sad for the young girl who had to share her bed with five men so that her mother-in-law could play her political game. ‘Draupadi is almost like me,’ Gandhari thought. ‘In this country, every woman is a tool to further the interests of men.’

Suyodhana ran his fingers through her hair, not saying anything. He was trying hard to love the woman he was holding in his arms with the same passion he had once felt for Subhadra.

Then cold reality grabbed hold of him. He was no longer allowed to set eyes on what he had created. He could no longer whisper his secrets and dreams to the sculptures he had chiselled. He would never again caress the smooth limbs of his Shiva. The God was no longer his. He belonged to the rich and privileged, jailed in a temple with fat Priests as his guards. His God was blind! With a vehemence, he had never suspected he possessed, he jumped up and looked at the distant city, glistening in all its glory. He spat on the ground. Then the Asura cursed his creation with so deep a hatred that Indra feared the city would carry the curse as long as it existed. The terrible words were uttered from the heart of a man who had lost the meaning of life. With every sentence he spoke, the Asura slapped the earth with both palms.

“Blind Gods! Hear my words. If there is truth in my art, let what I say be true eternally. The sweat and blood of Naga women built this city, but you banished them. From today, may no woman feel safe in this city. May corrupt and evil people forever rule this wretched place. May every man be possessed with lust – for woman, money, position, prestige, and power. May each man fight another. May brothers butcher brothers and rape their own sisters. Every time a woman steps outside her home, may she feel the fear of violation. Let this be the asylum of evil men and women. May the high and mighty ever fear for their lives and live in self-imposed jails for security. May the ruled despise their rulers and may the rulers fear the ruled. May this be a city of graveyards. May invaders from across the borders ransack the city repeatedly, changing the roles of oppressor and oppressed without end. May invaders plunder the city of her wealth again and again. May this be a city without trust, a city of anger and violent passions. May the blood of holy men fall here. May her citizens pollute this sacred river, making it into a sewer. May the air be poisonous and the streets filthy and crowded. May this city be damned forever.”

“Why are you so concerned over any man’s curse Yudhishtra?” Krishna asked. “I promise you that no other city in the world will match the glory of Indraprastha. Her rulers will live in splendour and luxury. Officials, relatives and friends, will have security guards to protect their wealth, power and prestige. While the rulers make the rules, as is their duty, they will break them when required, as is their privilege. The rulers may be cursed in private but in public, they will always be respected, envied and feared. The Gods will shower every blessing on the rulers of this city. This is my promise to you.”

The song insulted him, the learned Priests, and even the Vedas that sanctioned the great sacrifice he was conducting. The beggar sang that learning was useless if there was no love; that sacrifices were meaningless without purity of heart; and gifts worthless if bestowed on the undeserving. He sang that this rajasuya sacrifice was a charade to gain fame and not a sacrifice at all; that real sacrifices happen unknown and unheard, by people expecting nothing in return – neither fame, nor wealth, heaven nor salvation. Those sacrifices had God’s blessings.

“To hear that music oh King, silence the croaking of the Priests; burn their smritis; and free yourself from the tangle of meaningless rituals and tradition.”

Jara waited, but the crowd around Krishna kept thickening. “He has become a prisoner of the Priests,” Jara said to Dharma.

“Why should this man be given the honour of being Chief Guest? King Yudhishtra, if you wish to honour a man for his steadfastness in dharma, chose the great Bhishma instead. If you want a great warrior, chose Drona. If you want to elect a man of wisdom, choose Vidhura. And if you want a man of compassion and righteousness, chose your cousin Suyodhana. If you want a man of intellect, choose Kripa; or if you want a man of reason, choose Carvaka. If you want a man of unflinching loyalty, chose Aswathama. If you want to honour a man who has struggled against the odds and emerged victorious, it will be a difficult choice for you, for both Karna, the large-hearted King of Anga, and this brave young man, Ekalavya, fit that description. If you want a man who transcends all these qualities, choose the sage Veda Vyasa. But for the sake of humanity, do not choose the icon of adharma.”

“What are these divine acts? His trail of murders began at the age of eight. He stole from the cowherds he lived among, in his village. He drove away Nagas like Kaliya, and took away their land. He murdered his uncle. He has even stolen women’s clothing while they were bathing and then paraded them naked before him. He jilted his lover, Radha, when he ran away to Dwaraka, for fear of Jarasandha. Wise men thought he would mellow with age. But he has no morality. He keeps a harem of 16,008 girls but Radha has no place in it. Yet he claims he is an avatar of Vishnu. He wishes to share the mantle of none other than Lord Rama, who was steadfast in his love towards his wife Sita, and who fought a war with the demon King Ravana for her sake. Can there be a greater irony?”

Before Suyodhana could complete his words, Jara said to him, “You want to see the poor of this city? Come with me. The poor are the blessed for they are the true devotees of my Lord. When someone loves my Lord sincerely, the Lord loves him back manifold. The first thing He does is take away wealth. He gives his devotees unhappiness and suffering, for He knows that only in suffering can we remember His glory. If we have wealth and happiness, we will not think about Him and will thus remain immersed in worldly pleasures. He gives us misfortunes so that we hate the illusory world and strive for moksha. He is compassionate. Come and see His people, my Hari’s people, my Krishna’s people, and you will know what heaven is.”

“Whoever his Lord is, he seems to be an insecure person, obsessed with everyone singing his glory and praises,” Aswathama quipped. Everyone except Jara and Suyodhana laughed.

Yes, you look rich. But why should a Prince come to visit us? We are Untouchables. No one comes here, at least not anyone like you. You will become polluted and fall from your exalted caste. Maybe you have come in search of me? Do you want an architect to build a city in your kingdom? I can do it. Take me with you and I will build a city that will make this cursed place look like a child’s sandcastle. I built that city for them and then they banished me from it. If I build a city for you, you must allow us a corner… a little space for me and my people. I promise we will not pollute you. Just a little space… that is all we ask... a little respect… a little consideration. We too are human and it is not our fault that we were born with dark skins. I promise to build a great city for you. Have you seen Indraprastha? I built it… we all built it… in the sun… in the rain… the women and children of this village built that glistening city of gold… I sculpted the God in the temple... but he is blind… they did not allow me to complete my work. If I build you a bigger temple, will you allow me to give eyes to the Gods?”

Suyodhana gripped Aswathama’s hands for support and Karna gritted his teeth. They understood who the babbling lunatic was. It was Mayasura, the legendary architect. The Pandavas had banished the likes of Mayasura to the grim world beyond the Yamuna, far away from their great city, to the land of the poor and destitute. The stink of urine and excrement hit them like a body blow. When their eyes adjusted to the dim light, they could see league upon league of shanties. Small oil lamps flickered here and there and they could hear the noise of drunken brawls and screaming. There was enough misery here for everyone to hate their lives and pray for moksha. The Lord’s compassion was overwhelming.

“First they murdered a Nishada woman and her five children in Varanavata. Then Krishna and Arjuna executed the great massacre of Khandiva. Then King Jarasandha and his Nishada General were killed by trickery and Shishupala murdered in cold blood. How many more must die for their ambition? How many will they kill in the name of dharma? Murder, arson, rape, everything is explained away or justified by a few Priests. This hypocrisy is galling. See how they have treated Mayasura. In any other kingdom, they would be erecting statues honouring him and Kings would be competing for his talent. Here, he is banished to the stinking outer city because he was born an avarna and Untouchable. So many people are living there like pigs, in abject poverty, and those bastard Pandavas are taking pride in building a city of riches. Such acts have given birth to Takshaka and Durjaya. I fear for people like that beggar Jara, blind in their faith and innocent at heart. They are fodder for the raging ambition of men like Yudhishtra.”

The breeze carried the faint notes of Jara’s song from across the river. To him, his song was an act of piety and prayer; for the Prince and his friends, it sounded more like the lament of a broken people clinging to the feeble straw of faith to stay alive in this turbulent world. ***

Shakuni looked at the fools laughing around him and thanked his stars. They were laughing at the Crown Prince of the most powerful empire in India because a potbellied Priest did not like him. They were insulting the best archer in India because he was born in a low caste. The Gandhara Prince wanted to fall on his knees, face West towards Gandhara, and thank God for the windfall. But as he stood watching his nephew being ridiculed, all traces of the elation he felt were hidden behind the grim expression on his face.

“If I do not fight, they will destroy the city. I do not want a war, but as the leader of the Yadavas, I cannot leave my people to the mercy of the Nishada army. I detest war and violence, but I am not a coward. Non-violence has to be a position of strength. It cannot be a filthy cloth to cover the shame of cowardice. I will not indulge in peace talks until we are in a position to win. Non-violence is my personal belief. It should not stand in the way of what is good for my people. God protect us all, Revati.”

When did he get the fancy idea that he was called to serve his country and build an ideal city? Why did men have such impossible dreams? Why could they not be happy with their families? Why did they play dangerous games and bring home misery and tears?

“What a luxury your people have. You can choose what to eat and what to avoid. Your land is fertile. Here, if we are lucky we get to eat sometimes. We cannot afford customs about who can eat what. What we get, we eat together.”