The war has ended, yet peace is far away. Huge chariots stand in grim silence to take us to the cremation ground on the banks of river Ganges, but none of us – me, Gandhari and Draupadi – are yet ready for the gory hours ahead. As each woman from the royal family gets into the chariot, a fresh round of wailing starts and fades into an icy stillness. Cries and laments from the usually serene Gandhari coming from the pits of her very being churn our own grief. Even Krishna is unable to console Gandhari. He stands mute as she cries out ‘why could you not leave out one son for me’ or ‘they killed my son Duryodhana by unfair means, and you did nothing about it.’

I try to hold and comfort Gandhari but she is oblivious of my presence. I shrink back as I realize my sons have been the cause for her distress. As if taking the cue, Draupadi moves toward Gandhari, and the two hug each other and cry. Both have lost all their sons and seem to instinctively understand each other’s bereavement. But they don’t sense the smoldering volcano in me. Their hurts are visible on the outside for the world to see, but mine is bleeding inside and hurts as hell.

Perhaps Gandhari thinks I do not understand her bereavement – after all, my sons are alive and I should now rejoice that my son Yudhishtra will finally get to rule the land. A lump rises in my throat, strangulating every other emotion for an instant. Yes, I know what bereavement is, and in a way, it stings me more than it stings others. Is it because my bereavement is too private, and is unknown or unrecognized by the world? Or, do I grieve more because I have been unwittingly the cause of my secret son Karna’s death, just as much as I was the cause of his birth?
 
Finally we get into the chariots. The horses gallop through desolate streets – no crowd to cheer or musical troupes to announce ahead the royal entourage. As the chariots reach the outskirts of Hastinapura and wade through vast expanses of barren grounds strewn with heaps of unclaimed and mutilated bodies, an overpowering stench from putrefying flesh and puddles of semi-dried, sticky blood nauseates me. I hold my head, but my body writhes, and rocks and a gruff, guttural ‘ahhhh…’ escapes me.

A rage seizes me suddenly. Why am I going in this royal carriage? I want to feel the pain. The pain of wanton destruction and senseless killings. I want to tread the path thousands have tread and perished. I get down the chariot and walk.

A vulture swoops past me to peck at a mangled body I walked around a minute back. I don’t look back, yet I almost trip over something squishy and fleshy, and I choke the shriek with the ends of my upper garment. The enormity of carnage takes my breath away. Who was the cause of this war? Why did I prod my sons to not take injustice lying down but fight it?  Was I prompted by greed?

Draupadi’s anguish at the brutal killings of her sons – my grandsons – haunt me. Killed and burnt while sleeping!! Chivalry and righteousness had given way to blind animal fury. But how could one blame Aswatthama for this? Was not his dear father killed by treachery and deceit – beheaded when he had sat down in meditation?

Cascading waves of revenge and counter revenge had flown back and forth, blind to all rules of righteous combat. Oh yes, many such breach of rules were tacitly supported by Krishna! When Arjuna told me about the philosophical discussions he had with Krishna, I could at once identify with Krishna’s preachings and his point of view. And after this moral dissertation on dharma and karma I had started asking myself questions.

Questions that I had quelled and buried deep, and dilemmas I had sorted out by taking an easy path. Was I right? Did I focus too much on ‘kshatriya dharma’, thereby trampling my maternal instincts and duties? Was I fair to Karna?

Karna!! A vastly talented young man, greatly humiliated by all for want of identity, an identity I could have easily provided, and not driven him to seek it at wrong places. The entire life of Karna flashes before my eyes and my body heaves spasmodically. If only I had been more courageous. If only I had revealed my secret when my husband Pandu suggested I get children by invoking sage Durvaasa’s mantra. After all, getting pregnant by Niyoga was accepted even by the family elders. Why, how else was my husband, or for that matter Dhritarashtra, conceived? The only difference was that I was unmarried at the time. But even Pandu’s grandmother Satyavati had given birth to Vyasa before marriage. Was I too caught up in my family’s honor and its royal lineage to think of the consequences of my silence?

At what cost? Karna had the paid the price for his unknown parentage. He had to bear taunts, humiliations, sarcasms, smirks, derisions… His mastery over archery was never recognized for what it was worth. My own sons and Draupadi jeered at him as a lowly charioteer’s son. 

A stray arrow that had lodged itself on the low-lying branch of a tree pokes into my arms and blood gushes from the deep gash. An eerie cry springs from the pit of my stomach. I cup my mouth and stifle it. I close my eyes and calmly experience the pain. Joyous tears of relief flood my eyes. Yes, that’s what I should have done and that’s what I am going to do. Experience the pain and let it pass.

We have reached the river bank. My sons are sitting on the ground and offering oblations to the departed souls of all the relatives who lost their lives in the war. I sit calmly and pray for hours.

 ”Mother, I have performed the ceremonies for everyone, isn’t it? Shall we now go?” Yudhishtra asks me.
 
I hear myself say in a trembling voice, “Just one left. Karna”.

I bet even the raucous vultures prowling overhead stopped dead on their tracks. Yudhishtra looks dumbly at me.

I tell them all. The words pour out of me without stop. When I finish, I lift my head and look at Yudhishtra.

His hands tremble and I can hear his heart thudding inside. “Mother, did Karna know about it?”

“Yes, he knew. Bhishma told him. I told him too.”

Yudhishtra groans. “How unfair is that! You tell him and bind his hands, but you keep it away from us, so we can be ruthless to him. How could you be so mean?”

I flinch. I feel ashamed as Yudhishtra covers his face and recounts how Karna had spared their lives in a number of encounters where he had the upper hand. I’m unable to defend myself. In the tornado of emotions that suck me, I’m unable to find words that speak my turmoil.

Yudhishtra, with eyes brimming with tears, offers oblations to Karna’s departed soul. As I watch the proceedings, serenity returns to me. At least in death, Karna has been given the honor he had been denied in life.

We are so entwined in the society that a wrong action affects not only us but the entire family and the community as well. I must explain how I was torn between my sense of righteousness and the peculiar circumstances that prevented me from taking Karna into my family. I had to throttle words that would spring to my lips whenever people denigrated Karna as a charioteer’s son. I had to swallow my tears then. Now they flow freely.

I am not going to hold my emotions any longer.