Gandhari and Kaikeyee

BY KETAKI

Kaikeyee: I know who you are. You are Gandhari, the Queen-mother. The delicate gossamer silk which veils your eyes, has not the skill to hide the light of love shining from your eyes.

Gandhari: And who are you? You look a queen too! and one, methinks, very like me. Your eyes hold a wealth of love in them and your tears, like my silken veil, do but enhance it.

K: I am Kaikeyee.

G: Kaikeyee? Kaikeyee? I know. Were you not the Queen of Dasaratha, the Raghava? Rumour has it that you were the Death of that monarch: that you drove Ramachandra to the forest. But looking on you, into your eyes like the lotuses blooming on the Pampa Saras, my heart goes out to you in love and tenderness. Tell me–You with your queenliness, how could you do it?

K: Yes. I was a great queen: I was greatly loved. And yet, strange to say, it was love, sitting at the helm of my little craft, wrecked it to pieces. There is a fatality about love like ours.

G: Why, then, did you not justify your actions? When the entire city of Ayodhya rose up as one man and accused you, you were silent: when Vasishta looked on you with contempt, you were speechless: when Dasaratha, his voice hoarse with pain, called you harsh names, only your eyes flashed him an answer which he understood not. When Bharatha, your Bharatha, the child of your heart, when he accused you, why did you not speak a word?

K: Young as you are, you seem to know me well. I had stubborned my heart with indifference. But looking at you, hearing your kind voice, some chord in me responds, and I will speak.

G: I am the echo of your heart’s beat. Your love for Lord and son were born again in me. But that–is another story. Tell me your story so full of pain.

K: Listen then. I was a princess born of the Kekayas. My lord of the Raghu House desired me. My father made me his queen. I was a very happy woman then. My lord was everything to me: when Sakra came to him for help, I went with him to the battle-field. It was there he conferred on me those two boons–the twin cobras that later coiled themselves round the vine of life, and poisoned it.

My Bharatha was born; Ramabhadra was there, too. My heart was full of love for them. To me they looked like twin dew-drops on the tip of the Kimshuka leaf: like twin tears in the eyes of Morn…….Then came the fateful day when my Lord decided to crown Ramabhadra as Yuvaraja. Can I forget its brilliance, and its pitiful aftermath?

G: Yes, I have heard about it. Bharatha was in Kekaya; The King had bad dreams and so, the next day, in the council chamber he announced his intention of crowning Rama as Yuvaraja. You knew nothing about it; not until Mandhara came to you. Was it not so?

K: Yes: all Ayodhya was one mighty heart beating fast in happy anticipation of Sree Rama’s Coronation. I was in my chamber, and poor, ill-used Mandhara came to me with the news. Yes, I remember I gave her some jewel as a gift and she threw it away. She called me a fool; she called me mad. Why repeat all that talk? It is too well-known. She showed me a thousand things; the King’s promise to my father at the time of my marriage, to make my son the Yuvaraja. ‘But Mandhara, Bharatha and Rama are the same to me.’ I said. She became angry. ‘The King does not think so. Look how suddenly this coronation has been arranged. Why this haste? Why has not Bharatha been sent for? Because your brother must not know’…I do not remember the many things she said. But she made me realize that I was a mother, whose child had been cheated of its birthright. I became a tigress all at once. Do you not know how, in the high Himalayas, snow is piled flake on flake and an avalanche is formed: on a sudden, a sunray flashes forth and there is heard the roar of the avalanche rushing down. Even so, in the human mind thought on thought is piled. And a single upheaval, a newly-born emotion sets the mighty mind moving, and nothing–nothing can stop its course.

G: Yes. I know. That tiny laughter of Draupadi–and my house was burnt to ashes as a result of it.

K: How well I remember the events of that night! A starlit night it was, with the Pushya in ascent; I was in a chamber as dark as my heart. I know not how long I was there: I felt my Lord’s voice caressing my name……Let me not think on it. Poor unfortunate! His heart-strings snapped and my boons were granted. He hated me then: he knew me not. Only my Ramabhadra saw into the depth of my heart–only he saw the anguish of a new-born love there. Bharatha could not see it. It was then and only then that I knew Rama’s love for me. He was a Mahatma, and I did him a great wrong–But what of that? I am a proud woman and I have not justified my actions to anyone–not even to my Ramabhadra. The unspoken word is there between us–and so will it be forever unspoken.

G: Yes, Rama was the only star in the firmament of Bharatha; he could not see anything else. But Rama, when he came back from the forest, he came to see you first, and then went to Kausalya. No one has reached the height of his nobility except, perhaps, Karna, my son’s dear friend.

K: I had sworn to suffer in silence. But you, with your tearful voice, affect me strangely. The judgement of the world, of my son, they leave me cold. But your sympathy has loosened my heart in tears. Tell me, strange woman, what bond is there between you and me? When I look on you, why do I feel a warmth here, where my heart is?

G: Suffering is the common chord.

K: Suffering? Of what kind?

G: Love is an infinite capacity for bearing pain and it has been the heritage to which I was born. You must know how, ever since I became the bride of Dhritharashtra, I closed my eyes to the passing world. I created a world of my own and in that world I was very happy. When I held my Suyodhana in my arms, it was all I could do to keep my hands from tearing away the silken bandage. My son–my son–the thrill of it! Even at this distance of time my pulse quickens at the thought of my first-born.

K: When he grew older, they say it was jealousy eclipsed his kingly virtues: the proverbial drop of poison in the bowl holding nectar.

G: Yes. But my love for him did not see all that. They say that love is blind: but to me, love is an eye, which sees only the good in the beloved. He was proud; he was relentless: but I loved him.

K: They say when Suyodhana insulted Yagnyaseni, she appealed to you for help and you refused. Is rumour false-tongued?

G: No, no, it did happen. My son hated the Pandavas. He suffered indignities in the Rajasooya Pavilion. He deserved it they say. The Dyuta was wrong;–perhaps. It is for posterity to judge: but a mother cannot, and will not pass judgement on her child…..When Panchali with her mantle all awry, with her serpentine hair framing her face like the Rahu caressing the Moon when she came and spoke to me, I heard her not; I saw only my heart’s dearest child Duryodhana in the magic Hall of Maya: I only heard Draupadi’s laughter; I only saw my son’s hurt eyes like those of a chidden child….., Panchali was the thunderbolt that set my house aflame. The die was cast. No one could stop it. One might as well have tried to stop the mad rush of a mountain torrent....When the end came! Bhishma was gone, Karna and Dussasana were dead. My son had no one beside him excepting his undaunted courage and pride. Know you not that during the duel between Bheema and my son, Arjuna asked Krishna: ‘My lord, who is the better fighter?’ The Lord said: ‘If only skill is taken into account, Suyodhana is invincible; but his life is in his thigh and Vrikodara must needs be reminded of it’…..Balabhadra could not bear to see his beloved pupil killed in this unjust fight.

K: Brave mother of the Kauravas, stop. Your form is trembling with emotion. Your voice is husky with unshed tears. I can see a little heart throbbing in your throat.

G: No, let me speak. I was there beside him as he lay on the battlefield. He looked like a king cobra, uncoiled. He raised his stricken limbs from the earth. ‘Mother,’ he called me in his swan-like voice, ‘Look, mother; my thigh is broken: but not my back. I have never bent this crowned head to anyone, but, mother mine, I lay it at your feet. I have but one prayer–You and only you, must be my mother in my future lives.’……The Sun of my life, the Light of my life left me then, and I am left lamenting. Who can still the yearning in a mother’s heart? Who can stem the tide of her tears? Who can?

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