I Won't Let You Go (18 page)

On a bitter night of Aghran,    bitten by the cruel frost,

                all the lotuses had died,

save one in the garden-pond    of Sudas the florist,

                which had somehow survived.

He picked it up to sell it,    went to the palace-gate,

                asked to see the king himself,

when a traveller came by    and so delighted was he

                by the flower that he immediately said,

‘I would like to buy    your out-of-season lotus;

                how much are you asking for it?

The godlike Buddha’s    in this city today:

                at his feet I’d put it as a gift.’

Said the florist, ‘I hope to    get a masha of gold,’

                and the traveller was ready to pay it,

when with much pomp    and worship-offerings

                the king came out through the gate.

King Prasenajit,    chanting holy hymns,

                was going to pay the Buddha a visit,

saw the out-of-season flower,    asked, ‘How much?

                I want to buy it for the Lord’s feet.’

‘King,’ said the florist,    ‘with a masha of gold

                this gentleman’s buying it already.’

‘But I’ll pay ten!’    the monarch exclaimed,

                and the traveller said, ‘I’ll pay twenty!’

‘It’s mine!’ cried each,    wouldn’t concede defeat,

                and the price – it simply rocketed.

‘How much more might I get    if I gave it to him

                for whose sake they tussle!’ thought the florist.

‘Excuse me,’ he cried,    his palms pressed together,

                ‘I don’t want to sell this flower!’

So saying he ran    to the spot where the Buddha

                was seated, lighting up a bower.

Calm and composed,    he sat lotus-fashion,

                an immaculate image of bliss.

His eyes dripped peace,    and a light of compassion

                glimmered on his smiling lips.

Sudas – he stared    with a steadfast gaze.

                No, not a word could he speak! 

Then he slumped on the earth    and placed his lotus

                there on the Lord’s lotus-feet.

Showering nectar,    the Buddha asked, smiling,

                ‘Son, what is it you need?’

Sudas, full of longing,    said, ‘Lord, nothing else,

                just a trace of the dust of your feet!’

KARNA
. On sacred Jahnavi’s shore I say my prayers

           to the evening sun. Karna is my name,

           son of Adhirath the charioteer, and Radha is my mother.

           That’s who I am. Lady, who are you?

KUNTI
. Child, in the first dawn of your life

          it was I who introduced you to this wide world.

          That’s me, and today I’ve cast aside

          all embarrassment, to tell you who I am.

KARNA
. Respected lady, the light of your lowered eyes

           melts my heart, as the sun’s rays melt

           mountain snows. Your voice

           pierces my ears as a voice from a previous birth

           and stirs strange pain. Tell me then,

           by what mystery’s chain is my birth linked

           to you, unknown woman?

KUNTI
.                      Oh, be patient,

           child, for a moment! Let the sun-god first

           slide to his rest, and let evening’s darkness

           thicken round us. – Now let me tell you, warrior,

           I am Kunti.

KARNA
.           You are Kunti! The mother of Arjun!

KUNTI
. Arjun’s mother indeed! But son,

           don’t hate me for that. How I still recall

           the day of the tournament when you, a young bachelor,

          slowly entered the arena in Hastina-city

          as the newly rising sun enters the margin

          of the eastern sky, still pricked out with stars!

          Of all the women watching from behind a screen

          who was she, bereft of speech, of luck,

          who felt within her tortured breast the pangs

          of hungering love, a thousand she-snake fangs?

          Whose eyes covered your limbs with blessing’s kisses?

          It was Arjun’s mother! When Kripa advanced

          and smiling, asked you to announce your father’s name,

          saying, ‘He who is not of a royal family born

          has no right to challenge Arjun at all,’ –

          then you, speechless, red with shame, face lowered,

          just stood there, and she whose bosom your gleam

          of embarrassment burnt like fire: who was that

          unlucky woman? Arjun’s mother it was!

          Blessed is that lad Durjodhan, who thereupon

          at once crowned you prince of Anga. Yes, I praise him!

          And as you were crowned, the tears streamed from my eyes

          to rush towards you, to overflow your head,

          when, making his way into the arena,

          in entered Adhirath the charioteer, beside himself

          with joy, and you, too, in your royal gear

          in the midst of the curious crowds milling around

          bowed your only-just-anointed head, and saluted

          the feet of the old charioteer, calling him Father.

          Cruelly, contemptuously they smiled –

          the friends of the Pandabs; and right at that instant

          she who blessed you as a hero, O you jewel amongst heroes,

          I am that woman, the mother of Arjun.

KARNA
. I salute you, noble lady. A royal mother you are:

           so why are you here alone? This is a field of battle,

           and I am the commander of the Kaurab army.

KUNTI
.           Son, I’ve come to beg a favour of you –

            Don’t turn me away empty-handed.

KARNA
.                         A favour? From me!

            Barring my manhood, and what dharma requires,

            the rest will be at your feet if you so desire.

KUNTI
. I have come to take you away.

KARNA
.                   And where will you take me?

KUNTI
. To my thirsty bosom – to my maternal lap.

KARNA
. A lucky woman you are, blessed with five sons,

           and I am just a petty princeling, without pedigree –

           where would you find room for me?

KUNTI
.                                     Right at the top!

           I would place you above all my other sons,

           for you are the eldest.

KARNA
.                   By what right

           would I enter that sanctum? Tell me how

           from those already cheated of empire

           I could possibly take a portion of that wealth,

           a mother’s love, which is fully theirs.

           A mother’s heart cannot be gambled away

           nor be defeated by force. It’s a divine gift.

KUNTI
.                                 O my son,

           with a divine right indeed you had one day

           come to this lap – and by that same right

           return again, with glory; don’t worry at all –

           take your own place amongst all your brothers,

           on my maternal lap.

KARNA
.                             As if in a dream

           I hear your voice, honoured lady. Look, darkness has

           engulfed the entire horizon, swallowed the four quarters,

           and the river has fallen silent. You have whisked me off

          to some enchanted world, some forgotten home,

           to the very dawn of awareness. Your words

           like age-old truths touch my fascinated heart.

           It’s as if my own inchoate infancy,

           the very obscurity of my mother’s womb

           was encircling me today. O royal mother,

           loving woman, – be this real, or a dream, –

           come place your right hand on my brow, my chin

           for just a moment. Indeed I had heard

           that I had been abandoned by my natural mother.

           How often in the depth of night I’ve had this dream:

           that slowly, softly my mother had come to see me,

           and I’ve felt so bleak, and beseeched her in tears,

           ‘Mother, remove your veil, let me see your face,’ –

           and at once the figure has vanished, tearing apart

           my greedy thirsty dream. That very dream –

           has it come today in the guise of the Pandab mother

           this evening, on the battlefield, by the Bhagirathi?

           Behold, lady, on the other bank, in the Pandab camp

           the lights come on, and on this bank, not far,

           in the Kaurab stables a hundred thousand horses

           stamp their hooves. Tomorrow morning

           the great battle begins. Why tonight

           did I have to hear from Arjun’s mother’s throat

           my own mother’s voice? Why did my name

           ring in her mouth with such exquisite music –

           so much so that suddenly my heart

           rushes towards the five Pandabs, calling them ‘brothers’?

KUNTI
. Then come on, son, come along with me.

KARNA
. Yes, Mother, I’ll go with you. I won’t ask questions –

           without a doubt, without a worry, I’ll go.

           Lady, you are my mother! And your call

           has awakened my soul – no longer can I hear

           the drums of battle, victory’s conch-shells.

           The violence of war, a hero’s fame, triumph and defeat –

           all seem false. Take me. Where should I go?

KUNTI
.                       There, on the other bank,

           where the lamps burn in the still tents

           on the pale sands.

KARNA
.                             And there a motherless son

           shall find his mother for ever! There the pole star

           shall wake all night in your lovely generous

           eyes. Lady, one more time

           say I am your son.

KUNTI
.                         My son!

KARNA
.                                Then why

           did you discard me so ingloriously –

           no family honour, no mother’s eyes to watch me –

           to the mercy of this blind, unknown world? Why did you

           let me float away on the current of contempt

           so irreversibly, banishing me from my brothers?

           You put a distance between Arjun and me,

           whence from childhood a subtle invisible bond

           of bitter enmity pulls us to each other

           in an irresistible attraction. –

                                         Mother, you have no answer?

           I sense your embarrassment piercing these dark layers

           and touching all my limbs without any words,

           closing my eyes. Let it be then –

           you don’t have to explain why you cast me aside.

           A mother’s love is God’s first gift on this earth;

           why that sacred jewel you had to snatch

           from your own child is a question you may choose

           not to answer! But tell me then:

           why have you come to take me back again?

KUNTI
. Child, let your reprimands

          like a hundred thunderclaps rend this heart of mine

          into a hundred pieces. That I’d cast you aside

          is a curse that hounds me, which is why

          my heart is childless even with five dear sons,

          why it is
you
that my arms go seeking in this world,

          flapping and flailing. It is for that deprived child

          that my heart lights a lamp, and by burning itself

          pays its homage to the Maker of this universe.

          Today I count myself fortunate

          that I have managed to see you. When your mouth

          hadn’t yet uttered a word, I did commit

          a horrendous crime. Son, with that same mouth

          forgive your bad mother. Let that forgiveness burn

          fiercer than any rebukes within my breast,

          reduce my sins to ashes and make me pure!

KARNA
. O Mother, give – give me the dust of your feet,

           and take my tears!

KUNTI
.                   Son, I did not come

          simply in the happy hope of clutching you to my breast,

          but to take you back where you by right belong.

          You are not a charioteer’s son, but of royal birth –

          so cast aside the insults that have been your lot

          and come where they all are – your five brothers.

KARNA
. But Mother, I
am
a charioteer’s son,

           and Radha’s my mother – glory greater than that

           I have none. Let the Pandabs be Pandabs, the Kaurabs

           Kaurabs – I envy nobody.

KUNTI
.                        With the puissance of your arms

           recover the kingdom that’s your own, my son.

           Judhisthir will cool you, moving a white fan;

           Bhim will hold up your umbrella; Arjun the hero

           will drive your chariot; Dhaumya the priest

           will chant Vedic mantras; and you, vanquisher of foes,

           will live with your kinsmen, sole ruler in your kingdom,

           sitting on your jewelled throne, sharing power with none.

KARNA
. Throne, indeed! To one who’s just refused the maternal bond

           are you offering, Mother, assurances of a kingdom?

           The riches from which you once disinherited me

           cannot be returned – it’s beyond your powers.

           When I was born, Mother, from me you tore

           mother, brothers, royal family – all at one go.

           If today I cheat my foster-mother, her of charioteer caste,

           and boldly address as my own mother a royal materfamilias,

           if I snap the ties that bind me to the lord

           of the Kuru clan, and lust after a royal throne,

           then fie on me!

KUNTI
.                    Blessed are you, my son, for you are

           truly heroic. Alas, Dharma, how stern your justice is!

           Who knew, alas, that day

           when I forsook a tiny, helpless child,

           that from somewhere he would gain a hero’s powers,

           return one day along a darkened path,

           and with his own cruel hands hurl weapons at those

           who are his brothers, born of the same mother!

            What a curse this is!

KARNA
.                   Mother, don’t be afraid.

           Let me predict: it’s the Pandabs who will win.

           On the panel of this night’s gloom I can clearly read

           before my eyes the dire results of war:

           legible in starlight. This quiet, unruffled hour

           from the infinite sky a music drifts to my ears:

           of effort without victory, sweat of work without hope –

           I can see the end, full of peace and emptiness. 

           The side that is going to lose –

           please don’t ask me to desert that side.

           Let Pandu’s children win, and become kings,

           let me stay with the losers, those whose hopes will be dashed.

          The night of my birth you left me upon the earth:

           nameless, homeless. In the same way today

           be ruthless, Mother, and just abandon me:

           leave me to my defeat, infamous, lustreless.

           Only this blessing grant me before you leave:

           may greed for victory, for fame, or for a kingdom

           never deflect me from a hero’s path and salvation.