Continued from here
When I awake, I am disoriented. I wonder why Krishna is sprawled out on my sofa, apparently sleeping. And then it all comes back: the princess, the story, the vision, the happiness. But, the happiness was only momentary for now I am gripped with a deadly fear, a fear for my friend, a fear for my loyalty to the one man I love more than life itself.
Still feeling dizzy, I haul myself up. I need water, I decide. My feet take me into the passageway that leads to the entrance, away from the kitchen where there is water. I am intrigued, a little concerned even, but too dazed to disobey. In the silence, my footsteps echo. The only witnesses to my unsteady walk are the Seven Great Portraits that adorn the walls of the access, each diagonally opposite to the other, forming a perfectly chaotic zigzag pattern; painted by Sudeepa, known for his life-like portraits of people from all walks of life, these paintings, like most things in my life, are gifts from my best friend. I can almost sense their eyes—the cobbler, the eunuch, the archer, the writer, the court poet, the princess and Sudeepa himself, in an astonishingly accurate self-portrait— follow me as I make my way out.
When I am outside, relief swoops over me. For some reason, the passageway was uneasy and claustrophobic. It is a cloudy night: the moon peeps between two huge masses of grey; the stars are few and twinkle listlessly. The air is fresh though; and the night is alive with the call of the night-birds, the hoots of the owls and the gush of the wind through the swaying trees.
I suddenly realize where I am heading and pat my unconscious self on the back: our house-hold well, fifty feet deep, hitting sweet ground- water at a mere fifteen, is barely metres away. And as I draw water from the well, a picture comes to my mind. And, all of a sudden, two erstwhile minor details achieve a significance that only hindsight can bestow.
I am twenty-one; a proud but penniless archer, roaming the streets of Hastinapura, the greatest city in the world. I enter, quite inadvertently, a theatre. There is some sort of a tournament taking place for archers, big and small, have gathered, bows and quivers in tow, clad in shiny armours. All eyes are focused on one young lad, no older than seventeen. The very sight of him fills me with a deep sense of loathing, it is inexplicable. Maybe it is the manner in which he wields his bow—there is a certain practiced nonchalance that any experienced eye will tell you is put on, an act; he is fairly good because his tricks are very imaginative, but I cannot understand the need to be so theatrical. He is a star, no doubt—the crowd, seven thousand in all, commoners and aristocrats alike, seem to love him. And he seems very conscious of that fact, cockiness etched in every nerve of his body, every move he makes.
When they cheer him for the umpteenth time, for performing a trick I can blindfolded, I refuse to lurk in the shadows. I string my bow and there is a resounding twang and the cheering crowd is taken aback; and suddenly, heads turn, all eyes are focused on someone else. It is my moment of reckoning, I immediately realize: my one shot at greatness. I walk silently and the theatre has gone so quiet that I can hear my own footsteps. And then I hear murmurs, soft and quiet, politely inquisitive. I refuse to be distracted, not looking once in the direction of the audience. I simply take my bow and string it once more, this time it seems ever louder, for I am in the centre and that leads to multiple echoes and the crowd go dead quiet, all expectant, excited. As I shut my eyes to say prayers to my teacher and the Sun, my chosen God, there is a commotion in the inner stands—the queen, Kunti, faints. I pause and look at the white-bearded grand old man, sitting in the main gallery, who seems to be running the show: he simply smiles, nods and signals—the show must go on.
With a smile at the pompous, young archer and a bow to the aristocratic elders, I begin my exhibition. Initially, I simply repeat what their star archer had just displayed, doing each of his tricks with consummate ease: that gives me confidence. And then, I move onto my bag of tricks— skills that the archers of Hastinapura haven’t been taught, skills that they haven’t seen even, skills that even Bhagavan Bhargava, my teacher, found hard to teach, skills that I, however, have mastered so well that I barely notice I am performing them. What greets me initially is silence and that worries me, but stealing a glance at the crowd I realize that it is one of amazement, of incredulity. And then gradually, some men find their voices, others begin clapping and before long, the crowd are on their feet, roaring and hooting; some old men even have tears running down their eyes.
And with every trick I perform, the clouds grow darker, the air is thick with moisture, the pungent scent of rain prevails. And yet, much to my surprise (and that of most present), I alone am bathed in a fantastic, unearthly bright orange-yellow glow, almost as though the Sun, refusing to be outdone, has put its spotlight on me. On one end, there is the original star, Arjuna, son of Indra, the God of Rain, black-grey clouds looming large over his head. On the other, there is Radheya, the new super-star, unaffected by the threat of rain, for, unknown to him, his father is keeping an eye on him too.
I gulp my fill of water—three fourths of a bucket—and splash the remaining on my face in the hope that I would regain my composure and think calmly. My mind, failing to come to terms with the situation, is blank. My wretched body however can’t take it —my hands and legs behave as though I am on a chariot travelling on a pot-holed road. I cannot stop shivering. I rush inside, past the passageway and the prying eyes, past Krishna, still blissfully asleep, past the dining hall, the reflection of the lamp-lights dancing on the newly purchased silver cutlery and into my bedroom, where lay my bow and quiver. I pick them up, still shaking, and run outside.
Outside, the wind has picked up; the night, however, has gone chillingly quite: the owls don’t hoot, the insects seem to have been struck dumb. With one hand I draw my first arrow, my shaking other hand holding the bow unsteadily. The arrow’s tip catches the moonlight and twinkles briefly. I pull the string and let it go, at an angle to the wind, into the darkness. After the first fraction of a second, I cannot see it, yet I know exactly where it lands, my trained ears keeping track of its pathway. I draw my next arrow and repeat the action. I do this several times and gradually, my body gets into the groove, my hands and head grow steadier and steadier until they are as still as a statue; my mind is calmer, though it consciously avoids any thought but that pertaining to the act of taking aim and tracing the path the arrow takes. And then, in the near-silence (the only sound being that of the wind, racing through the dancing trees) I hear Krishna call out my name.
I do not turn around. Still continuing to shoot arrows into the darkness, I ask
“My mother—Does she know who I actually am?”
“Yes”, he says. He is now standing by me.
“Who is she?”
I know who she is, but I still can’t bring myself to acknowledging it. I need someone else to tell me.
“Kunti” he says flatly.
For a second, I turn my head slightly, still continuing to fire arrows, to look at him. He has an odd expression on his face, I cannot quite place it.
And strangely, maybe out of inactivity, my legs collapse and I am on my knees. I still do not stop taking aim though. And then the tears begin to flow; they are tears of anger. Anger at fate, for I have always managed to be on her wrong side, at the receiving end; anger at my father, the Sun—could he not once have told me? Anger at my mother, Kunti, for being cowardly and stupid; anger at Krishna for I know that this is also part of some grand plan of his; anger, most of all, at myself, for being so unlike a warrior, for letting my emotions get the better of me.
Krishna is still looking at me, with the same odd expression.
“It’s the act of taking aim in the darkness”, I say to him, a little too loudly, “all that concentration is causing my eyes to become watery”
I know they are stupid words, but they sting him like nothing I have said before. He seems to be in terrible misery, so much so that he is forced to look away.
“I understand”, he says simply; his voice is strained.
And then I can take it no more. I drop my bow and lie down on the ground, facing up, on the spiky lawn, carefully trimmed under the supervision of my wife. The sky has just two colours and shades of them both: black and white. The sky is a black blanket; the stars, mostly hidden by monstrous clouds, flash like white diamonds; the clouds are graying in the centre, and white at the edges, much like my now foster-father, Athiratha’s hair; the moon, shaped like a strained bow-string, is off-white, with patches of light grey.
“Radheya”, Krishna says softly “I offer you the Earth. If you join us, there will be no war. And you know Yudhishtra, if I tell him of your story, he will gladly renounce his throne for his brother. And Duryodhana will be equally pleased. You will be the Lord of the World”
For a second, I picture myself as King of Hastinapura, seated on the jeweled throne, surrounded by my brothers and friends. The next instant, I realize the King’s face is not mine, but that of another man: a far nobler, a far more powerful, a far more generous and importantly, a far better administrator than I can ever dream of being. It is the face of my best friend.
My decision is made.
“No. I will not come over your to your side. And Yudhishtra will not get to know. My name is Radheya and my mother is Radha”
“So you will put your friend over your brothers? Loyalty over blood?” he asks.
“I am simply putting my word over everything else. And I have promised my friend to fight the war and fight my very best and let him have his throne”
“Your friend is not a nice man, Radheya”
Those words cause me to flare up, like it is I who am being insulted, like I am being called a suta.
“One more word, Krishna, one more word about him and this discussion is over. I cannot harm you, but I can threaten to not listen. On the day of the tournament, when the whole world looked down upon me for being a suta, who came to my rescue? Who made me King of Anga? Who made me what I am today? Who saw my soul, who saw me for I what I truly was, a kshatriya, a warrior, a hero? I owe my life to him”
Krishna is silent, his face inscrutable. I look at his face, glowing serenely in the faint moonlight and my rage dissipates as quickly as it rose. One cannot be angry with him. I say:
“You know Krishna, if you weren’t on the other side, we could have been friends. The best of friends even”
He picks up my bow and examines it carefully, his long fingers gracefully stringing it tenderly; he even smells the wood lovingly. He then looks at me and smiles and says:
“I think we are”
To be continued.
When I awake, I am disoriented. I wonder why Krishna is sprawled out on my sofa, apparently sleeping. And then it all comes back: the princess, the story, the vision, the happiness. But, the happiness was only momentary for now I am gripped with a deadly fear, a fear for my friend, a fear for my loyalty to the one man I love more than life itself.
Still feeling dizzy, I haul myself up. I need water, I decide. My feet take me into the passageway that leads to the entrance, away from the kitchen where there is water. I am intrigued, a little concerned even, but too dazed to disobey. In the silence, my footsteps echo. The only witnesses to my unsteady walk are the Seven Great Portraits that adorn the walls of the access, each diagonally opposite to the other, forming a perfectly chaotic zigzag pattern; painted by Sudeepa, known for his life-like portraits of people from all walks of life, these paintings, like most things in my life, are gifts from my best friend. I can almost sense their eyes—the cobbler, the eunuch, the archer, the writer, the court poet, the princess and Sudeepa himself, in an astonishingly accurate self-portrait— follow me as I make my way out.
When I am outside, relief swoops over me. For some reason, the passageway was uneasy and claustrophobic. It is a cloudy night: the moon peeps between two huge masses of grey; the stars are few and twinkle listlessly. The air is fresh though; and the night is alive with the call of the night-birds, the hoots of the owls and the gush of the wind through the swaying trees.
I suddenly realize where I am heading and pat my unconscious self on the back: our house-hold well, fifty feet deep, hitting sweet ground- water at a mere fifteen, is barely metres away. And as I draw water from the well, a picture comes to my mind. And, all of a sudden, two erstwhile minor details achieve a significance that only hindsight can bestow.
I am twenty-one; a proud but penniless archer, roaming the streets of Hastinapura, the greatest city in the world. I enter, quite inadvertently, a theatre. There is some sort of a tournament taking place for archers, big and small, have gathered, bows and quivers in tow, clad in shiny armours. All eyes are focused on one young lad, no older than seventeen. The very sight of him fills me with a deep sense of loathing, it is inexplicable. Maybe it is the manner in which he wields his bow—there is a certain practiced nonchalance that any experienced eye will tell you is put on, an act; he is fairly good because his tricks are very imaginative, but I cannot understand the need to be so theatrical. He is a star, no doubt—the crowd, seven thousand in all, commoners and aristocrats alike, seem to love him. And he seems very conscious of that fact, cockiness etched in every nerve of his body, every move he makes.
When they cheer him for the umpteenth time, for performing a trick I can blindfolded, I refuse to lurk in the shadows. I string my bow and there is a resounding twang and the cheering crowd is taken aback; and suddenly, heads turn, all eyes are focused on someone else. It is my moment of reckoning, I immediately realize: my one shot at greatness. I walk silently and the theatre has gone so quiet that I can hear my own footsteps. And then I hear murmurs, soft and quiet, politely inquisitive. I refuse to be distracted, not looking once in the direction of the audience. I simply take my bow and string it once more, this time it seems ever louder, for I am in the centre and that leads to multiple echoes and the crowd go dead quiet, all expectant, excited. As I shut my eyes to say prayers to my teacher and the Sun, my chosen God, there is a commotion in the inner stands—the queen, Kunti, faints. I pause and look at the white-bearded grand old man, sitting in the main gallery, who seems to be running the show: he simply smiles, nods and signals—the show must go on.
With a smile at the pompous, young archer and a bow to the aristocratic elders, I begin my exhibition. Initially, I simply repeat what their star archer had just displayed, doing each of his tricks with consummate ease: that gives me confidence. And then, I move onto my bag of tricks— skills that the archers of Hastinapura haven’t been taught, skills that they haven’t seen even, skills that even Bhagavan Bhargava, my teacher, found hard to teach, skills that I, however, have mastered so well that I barely notice I am performing them. What greets me initially is silence and that worries me, but stealing a glance at the crowd I realize that it is one of amazement, of incredulity. And then gradually, some men find their voices, others begin clapping and before long, the crowd are on their feet, roaring and hooting; some old men even have tears running down their eyes.
And with every trick I perform, the clouds grow darker, the air is thick with moisture, the pungent scent of rain prevails. And yet, much to my surprise (and that of most present), I alone am bathed in a fantastic, unearthly bright orange-yellow glow, almost as though the Sun, refusing to be outdone, has put its spotlight on me. On one end, there is the original star, Arjuna, son of Indra, the God of Rain, black-grey clouds looming large over his head. On the other, there is Radheya, the new super-star, unaffected by the threat of rain, for, unknown to him, his father is keeping an eye on him too.
I gulp my fill of water—three fourths of a bucket—and splash the remaining on my face in the hope that I would regain my composure and think calmly. My mind, failing to come to terms with the situation, is blank. My wretched body however can’t take it —my hands and legs behave as though I am on a chariot travelling on a pot-holed road. I cannot stop shivering. I rush inside, past the passageway and the prying eyes, past Krishna, still blissfully asleep, past the dining hall, the reflection of the lamp-lights dancing on the newly purchased silver cutlery and into my bedroom, where lay my bow and quiver. I pick them up, still shaking, and run outside.
Outside, the wind has picked up; the night, however, has gone chillingly quite: the owls don’t hoot, the insects seem to have been struck dumb. With one hand I draw my first arrow, my shaking other hand holding the bow unsteadily. The arrow’s tip catches the moonlight and twinkles briefly. I pull the string and let it go, at an angle to the wind, into the darkness. After the first fraction of a second, I cannot see it, yet I know exactly where it lands, my trained ears keeping track of its pathway. I draw my next arrow and repeat the action. I do this several times and gradually, my body gets into the groove, my hands and head grow steadier and steadier until they are as still as a statue; my mind is calmer, though it consciously avoids any thought but that pertaining to the act of taking aim and tracing the path the arrow takes. And then, in the near-silence (the only sound being that of the wind, racing through the dancing trees) I hear Krishna call out my name.
I do not turn around. Still continuing to shoot arrows into the darkness, I ask
“My mother—Does she know who I actually am?”
“Yes”, he says. He is now standing by me.
“Who is she?”
I know who she is, but I still can’t bring myself to acknowledging it. I need someone else to tell me.
“Kunti” he says flatly.
For a second, I turn my head slightly, still continuing to fire arrows, to look at him. He has an odd expression on his face, I cannot quite place it.
And strangely, maybe out of inactivity, my legs collapse and I am on my knees. I still do not stop taking aim though. And then the tears begin to flow; they are tears of anger. Anger at fate, for I have always managed to be on her wrong side, at the receiving end; anger at my father, the Sun—could he not once have told me? Anger at my mother, Kunti, for being cowardly and stupid; anger at Krishna for I know that this is also part of some grand plan of his; anger, most of all, at myself, for being so unlike a warrior, for letting my emotions get the better of me.
Krishna is still looking at me, with the same odd expression.
“It’s the act of taking aim in the darkness”, I say to him, a little too loudly, “all that concentration is causing my eyes to become watery”
I know they are stupid words, but they sting him like nothing I have said before. He seems to be in terrible misery, so much so that he is forced to look away.
“I understand”, he says simply; his voice is strained.
And then I can take it no more. I drop my bow and lie down on the ground, facing up, on the spiky lawn, carefully trimmed under the supervision of my wife. The sky has just two colours and shades of them both: black and white. The sky is a black blanket; the stars, mostly hidden by monstrous clouds, flash like white diamonds; the clouds are graying in the centre, and white at the edges, much like my now foster-father, Athiratha’s hair; the moon, shaped like a strained bow-string, is off-white, with patches of light grey.
“Radheya”, Krishna says softly “I offer you the Earth. If you join us, there will be no war. And you know Yudhishtra, if I tell him of your story, he will gladly renounce his throne for his brother. And Duryodhana will be equally pleased. You will be the Lord of the World”
For a second, I picture myself as King of Hastinapura, seated on the jeweled throne, surrounded by my brothers and friends. The next instant, I realize the King’s face is not mine, but that of another man: a far nobler, a far more powerful, a far more generous and importantly, a far better administrator than I can ever dream of being. It is the face of my best friend.
My decision is made.
“No. I will not come over your to your side. And Yudhishtra will not get to know. My name is Radheya and my mother is Radha”
“So you will put your friend over your brothers? Loyalty over blood?” he asks.
“I am simply putting my word over everything else. And I have promised my friend to fight the war and fight my very best and let him have his throne”
“Your friend is not a nice man, Radheya”
Those words cause me to flare up, like it is I who am being insulted, like I am being called a suta.
“One more word, Krishna, one more word about him and this discussion is over. I cannot harm you, but I can threaten to not listen. On the day of the tournament, when the whole world looked down upon me for being a suta, who came to my rescue? Who made me King of Anga? Who made me what I am today? Who saw my soul, who saw me for I what I truly was, a kshatriya, a warrior, a hero? I owe my life to him”
Krishna is silent, his face inscrutable. I look at his face, glowing serenely in the faint moonlight and my rage dissipates as quickly as it rose. One cannot be angry with him. I say:
“You know Krishna, if you weren’t on the other side, we could have been friends. The best of friends even”
He picks up my bow and examines it carefully, his long fingers gracefully stringing it tenderly; he even smells the wood lovingly. He then looks at me and smiles and says:
“I think we are”
To be continued.
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