Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (13 page)

It is only after a third messenger arrives with apologies from Dritarashtra that he decides to forget his quarrel and return to Hastinapur.

Draupadi could have returned to her father. The exile only applied to us. But neither Uncle Vidura nor Mother could persuade her.

‘I will not go back as long as those men live,’ she had said.

Then, for the first time, Draupadi broke down. On Mother’s shoulder, the queen who had suffered her disgrace with her head high, wept.

‘I expect nothing of my five heroic husbands! But I have a brother, I have Krishna. They know my prayer. They will see it done.’

It is only after Krishna comes to visit us that Draupadi’s mood lightens. He speaks to her for a long time, using words the way only he can.

‘What has happened has happened,’ he tells her. ‘But you will be avenged. You will reign as queen again. I foresee it.

‘I swear the sons of Dritarashtra will pay with blood for what they have done. I swear it by everything I hold holy.’

When Draupadi looks unconvinced, Krishna says with certainty, ‘The heavens may fall, the Himalaya crumble. But my words will not fail.’

A smile lights Draupadi’s face up. I have not seen that in a while.

The next day, when Draupadi orders the last of our servants to return with Krishna, Yudhistira protests. But she is unrelenting.

‘If exile is the fate you have chosen for us,’ she tells him firmly, ‘we will live the life of exiles.’

I seek her out later. Draupadi is labouring over a fire, struggling to keep the smoke from her eyes. Gratefully, she accepts my help.

But when I broach the subject of servants, the princess who grew up with a thousand maids turns a soot-blackened face to me.

‘No, Bhima,’ she says. ‘I will not let him forget this.’

Seeing my confusion, she adds, ‘The king has a weak memory. It did not take him long to forget your troubled childhood with the Kauravas.

‘It did not take him long to forget how they tried to burn you all alive in the forest lodge at Varanavata.

‘Give him time, a few servants, someone to play dice with, and he can forget his humiliation in Hastinapur too.

‘But he will not forget my humiliation. I will not let him.’

This queen knows Yudhistira better than his own brothers. I do not want to argue about servants anymore.

We settle into a new routine after Krishna leaves. Life is simple again. We hunt. We eat. We sleep. Every few weeks, we move camp.

The speed with which Draupadi adapts to the forest surprises me. She has come to terms with our fate faster than the rest of us.

A deerskin in place of royal finery, her loose hair falling uncombed to her waist, it is easy to mistake her for a hermit girl from afar.

The drudgery of our rough existence extracts no complaint from her lips and she manages our new lives with quiet efficiency.

I bow to the steel in Draupadi.

Our move to the Dwaita forests is, initially, uneventful. Everywhere we have gone, the hermits have only been pleased to receive Yudhistira.

One day, when I return from a hunt, I find Yudhistira waiting. He is agitated. In my absence, a forester had entered camp and insulted him.

‘Kirmeeran is his name,’ Yudhistira says. ‘He wants us to vacate this place—apparently, this is his hunting ground!

‘Kill him. Let the tribal pay for his insolence.’

When I set out to find Kirmeeran the next morning, I have every intention of obeying Yudhistira.

The duel itself is not worth mentioning. Though strong, Kirmeeran’s undisciplined attacks are easy to parry. I soon have him at my mercy.

What makes me hold my killing blow? Perhaps it is the lack of fear I see on his face.

When I slowly release him, he does not run away. Breathless, he huddles on the ground, watching me. Then he says:

‘I will fight you again. Until I kill you—or you kill me.’

Seeing my surprise, he says, ‘You do not deserve my mercy, Bhimasena. And I will not accept yours.’

‘How do I know you?’ I ask.

Slowly it emerges. Kirmeeran is Baka’s younger brother. He was also Hidimba’s hunting partner.

But it is not their killings he seeks to avenge. He wants to punish me for abandoning Hidimbi.

I am speechless. Hidimbi!

He had always wanted to marry Hidimbi, Kirmeeran tells me. He was away in another forest when she met me.

When he returned, he rushed to her. But Hidimbi sent him away. She was sure I would come back for her.

Though rebuffed, Kirmeeran had looked after Hidimbi and her newborn ever since. And vowed to kill me for forsaking her.

Kirmeeran is right. I did forsake Hidimbi. In all my time at Indraprastha, I had come looking for her just once.

I stand there, lost for words. This forester has been more loyal to my family than I have!

‘You fought well,’ I finally say. ‘I will not fight you again.’

Then, tentatively, I ask, ‘I have a son?’

‘You have a son,’ Kirmeeran says. ‘Ghatotkacha.’

Ghatotkacha. My firstborn!

We talk late into the afternoon. Kirmeeran cooks a fine feast for me. I listen eagerly as he tells me how my son is growing strong.

When he hears about our exile, he says, ‘When the time comes for war, send word to us. You are not alone.’

When we part, I hand him my hunting knife. Mayan had crafted it for me, the handle of ivory, the blade thick enough to gut a wild boar.

‘For Ghatotkacha. May he grow into a mighty hunter!’

My brothers are anxiously waiting for me at the camp. Even Arjuna is there. Yudhistira wants to know the details of the duel.

‘He will not cause us trouble anymore.’

Yudhistira asks, ‘Did you kill him?’

‘I did not have to. He is not our enemy.’

Everyone looks at me inquiringly. ‘He is a relative of my wife, Hidimbi,’ I say. ‘His people will fight with us against the Kauravas.’

Somehow I do not feel like telling them about Ghatotkacha.

‘Oh,’ Yudhistira says, sounding disappointed. ‘I doubt the foresters will make any difference. Besides, it might not come to war.’

Yudhistira’s naivety can be astounding at times. Arjuna asks, ‘Do you expect Duryodhana to return everything tamely when we go back?’

Yudhistira says, ‘War is the way of the unimaginative. It is a last resort. My view is we finish the exile first, then see.’

‘See what?’ Arjuna does not mask his anger. ‘Elder brother might be happy to roam the forest for twelve years. But that will not suffice!’

‘We have no choice!’ Yudhistira says, now equally agitated. ‘These were the terms of our release. I cannot go back on my word!’

Draupadi’s response is biting. ‘The word of the righteous Yudhistira! It is worth more than everything—our kingdom, our youth, my honour!’

Pushing back her uncombed tresses, she says, ‘Dushasana dragged me into the royal hall by my hair—on the strength of your word!

‘I swore that day I would tie my hair only with hands bathed in his blood. Will you deny me that?

‘Or is it only the word of Yudhistira that is righteous?’

Yudhistira mumbles something about how fate will punish those who forsake righteousness. It is more than what Arjuna can bear.

‘Fate is what we make of it,’ he says. ‘It is for us to decide whether we want to hide in the forests or fight for what was taken from us.

‘As for righteousness, was it righteous for you to pawn your brothers and wife like we were cattle?’

Yudhistira says, ‘I did what I thought was right! You did not stop me then. Now, all of you question me!’

So distressed is Yudhistira that words fail him. For once, we are spared the morality lectures that trip off his tongue so easily.

At night, Arjuna approaches me. ‘I am leaving,’ he says. ‘I am tired of this place, tired of our listless lives here.’

‘Have you told Yudhistira?’ I ask.

‘No. Please tell him. There is so much I do not know about archery. I have heard of new weapons, new techniques. I must learn!

‘Tell our brother I have gone to prepare for the war he does not believe in.’

I watch as he disappears into the darkness. Somehow, with Arjuna around, I had felt twice as strong.

THE WANDERERS

EPISODE 18

TWEETS 53

From one forest to another, one holy place to the next. Time has lost its meaning. All I know is we left Hastinapur in a distant past.

Yudhistira is happy again. At every pilgrim centre, priests flock to him. They all know him or, at least, have heard of him.

The generous king prone to religious rites like monsoon to rains. Is it surprising his fame has spread among the holy men?

We trek endlessly. Nakula and Sahadeva appear happy, spending hours practising their swordsmanship. Sometimes I join them.

They are equally happy to talk for hours about the science of horse breeding or the medicinal property of one herb or the other.

And Draupadi? She follows us without protest. But if she is happy, I am yet to see it in her.

Krishna and Balarama visit us when we camp on the banks of the Ganga near Parbat. With them is Satyaki, one of their closest supporters.

I like Satyaki immediately. He is like me in many ways: tall, of broad chest, with powerful arms and a keen interest in unarmed combat.

He speaks rarely. Smiles even less. But there is warmth about him. He would make an excellent ally.

Krishna brings us news about Mother. He had once been to Uncle Vidura’s house to meet her. They both sent us their blessings.

He also spoke about Subhadra and Abhimanyu. They are living peacefully in Dwaraka, where Abhimanyu is growing into a fine archer.

‘Already he is better than Arjuna was at that age,’ Krishna says proudly. ‘That boy could do great things when he grows up. If only—’

Krishna doesn’t finish. For some reason, a strange look comes over his face.

When the talk invariably turns to war, Balarama is quiet. He has taught Duryodhana and me. It is clear he does not want to take sides.

Satyaki, however, has no such qualms. He is against gambling, and believes Duryodhana behaved disgracefully in Hastinapur.

‘Prepare well, but do not delay,’ he tells me, when we part. ‘Do not let the enemy acquire strength.’

Soon after Krishna, Balarama and Satyaki leave, a sage arrives with a message. Arjuna wants us to meet him at a place in Gandhamadana.

We arrive at the foothills of the mountain late one evening. Deeming it unwise to continue at night, I look around for a place to camp.

It is lucky I find a cave. It rains heavily that night.

In the morning, we begin the long climb. Through the drizzle, we follow the narrow path that hermits and pilgrims have used before.

But soon we have to stop. Uprooted trees and fallen branches block our way.

I walk ahead, clearing a path, cutting away at branches, struggling to keep my foothold on the wet grass. The progress is painfully slow.

The twins keep pace with me. Draupadi and Yudhistira bring up the rear. They are exhausted, slipping farther behind with every step.

I stop, hearing Yudhistira shout. Draupadi has fallen.

Draupadi is seated on the ground, leaning against a fallen tree. ‘She cannot climb anymore,’ Yudhistira says. ‘We must carry her.’

By ‘we’ Yudhistira means me. As I pick Draupadi up, a movement catches my eye. I stop.

‘Who is there?’ I shout, wishing I had not entrusted Sahadeva with carrying my weapons as I cleared the way.

Dark shadows emerge from nowhere. Silently, a group of tribals approaches us. Lowering Draupadi to her feet, I step forward.

‘I am Bhimasena, the mighty Pandava,’ I say. ‘Who are you?’

The men talk among themselves. I can barely follow their guttural dialect. Then someone steps from their midst to face me.

‘This is not a good time to climb the mountain,’ he says.

I had taken him for a man, but he is a boy. Long hair frames a childish face, falling matted on to shoulders thick with muscles.

I say, ‘We must get to the top somehow.’

The boy does not respond immediately. He takes in the exhausted Draupadi, the anxious Yudhistira. Turning, he says something to the others.