Kurukshetra's Shadow

By Arundhati Sahoo

Wars are kinder to men, for they are given a chance, in the battlefield,

to showcase their prowess at weapons and strategy-making - either to

emerge victorious or to die valorously. The very act of fighting a battle

washes them off their earthly sins, securing their position in the heavens.

But what about the women? Burni

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9789360493516

Book preview

Kurukshetra's Shadow

The Martyrs who never Fought

Arundhati Sahoo

Ukiyoto Publishing

All global publishing rights are held by

Ukiyoto Publishing

Published in 2024

Content Copyright © Arundhati Sahoo

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

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To those, who dare to think!

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgement is often an understatement in the life of an author; especially when we are less of speaking creatures and more of writing our emotions out!

I have been a lucky one to have a gang of my own; who not only give an eye to what I write but are consistent and prompt to share their thoughts on what I write or which cover I want to put to the words. This book would never be complete without thanking them properly and I hope not to miss anyone out here!

My author wing-women Deepti and Namita; for diligently editing; tolerating my mood swings of the world to deciding the font of the cover with me!

My friends Yajnya, Satya, Monika, Keerthi, Pooja, Ekta, Anant, Nitin, Vishal, Lopamudra, for hearing me out and consistently reading my writings and sharing their feedbacks!

My family for their continuous support, even when I enter my cocoon and write something in the middle of the night!

The great designer friend Harsha, who gave life to my concept and brought the cover to life!

The awesome team at Ukiyoto who helped get this book out for you!

Most importantly I thank the stars for bringing these stories to me; giving me the chance to write them and weave those stories for I don’t know what would have I been if not writing; my readers for their faith in me and Kurukshetra’s Shadow; and everyone in my life for letting me be!

Thank you.

Contents

The Cottage

Duhshala & Gandhari

Hidimba, The Asur Queen

Yudhishthir Pays A Visit

Bheem Meets Dhritarashtra

Yudhishthir’s Meeting With Vidur

Kunti On Draupadi’s Administration

Kunti & Gandhari

Draupadi’s Visit

Draupadi & Bhanumati

Bhanumati Meets Gandhari

Uttara, The Young Widow

Dhritarashtra & Gandhari On Life

Arjun Visits Kunti

Nakul’s Visit To The Cottage

The Silent Sahadev

Nakul’s Encounter With Sanjay

Kunti & Gandhari

Subhadra & Krishna Come To The Cottage

The Last Sunrise

The Cottage

D

eep into the forest, there stood the cottage with arched windows, through which the first rays of the winter sun percolated, though without much fervor. The air brought freshness and rejuvenation. Here, there was a poignancy of the static as well as a flippancy of the never-stagnant nature. It was a small hut near an old banyan tree, but even in austerity it spoke of the magnificence of riches. The rising sun generously spread its rays, scattering across the anterior, letting the holy basil plant feel its warmth and ruffle its leaves. The canopy of the sweet autumn clematis, neatly maintained, its fragrance blowing in the misty wind of the early winter, gave a feel of royalty to the place by its mere presence.

A house that did not seem to be the abode of the former kings and queens and yet it was perfect to be the haven of parents who had lost their children, of people who had lost everything in life and did not have anything more to lose. At the end, that is what it always boils down to - people in love, people in loss and people missing their own!

It was as if the world had given them moments to stop and breathe, to pause and re-think, to unlearn and to learn again the basic virtues and vices of living. It was as if the house stood there, in the shadow of the banyan tree, on the rocks, to live and breathe and take away the pain and suffering from those lives, those cursed creatures, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari, Kunti, Vidur, and Sanjay.

The small window in the room of the erstwhile queen Kunti was open. She could see the trees standing tall, the birds, in solidarity with each other, chirping and cooing and making flutters amid the leaves, some flowers blossoming, some wilting. And they all stood with one another, the flowers, the leaves, the birds, to let life come in, to let the feelings sink in, to welcome the moments they were offered. Kunti looked at them, and then she looked at the ground. The smell of petrichor was long gone, it was a dusty dusk in the early-winter. The morning had long gone, too, but with the chores that occupied her throughout the day, the life of an ever-busy woman that she had led, she could only lie down once the day’s duties were over! Perhaps this is what keeps the regular people too occupied from thinking of other things.

As the evening drew in, she could feel the smell and essence of the night flowers, carried by the ruffled yet soothing wind that blew inside the room. The night flowers, she thought, they never made it to the temples, to the Gods, yet they did not give up their fragrance and continued to entice. The irony appealed to her as well as distressed her.

‘Different flowers bloom in different seasons, giving different fragrances, yet how naturally we accept them and enjoy them! The way we embrace the differences in nature, if only we could apply the same to our lives; to accept the different flavors the same way, with equanimity!’

Gandhari was treading listlessly inside her room while her mind was swirling around. She had touched and felt each piece of brick that laid the foundation of the house they called home these days, and it seemed to have been put there with meticulous effort; it was the effort of people who had seen much more than their previous generations perhaps! The curtain made of the khus grass was fastened loosely on the window. She could feel the coldness of the weather and curled up inside her quilt. The sloping bamboo-and-shisham roof afforded some protection from the weather outside. She imagined and yet no image would come to her long-found inner vision and make her understand the intricacy of the architecture. It allured her, it made her desirous of sampling the work of the craftsmen of her country; she never had felt this urge to experience beauty this way before. It was a different sensation altogether. She had never bothered about these minute details until now; was it because she had never experienced something this beautiful or was it because she had never paid attention to these details? Maybe the latter or maybe Hastinapur’s palace was already etched in her mind through the various paintings she had seen, and although it had been darkness for the rest of her days, she had a clear picture laid out in her mind of how it would be! There was another, more fundamental reason. the Hastinapur palace had been made and used for generations before her and it would be the same for generations after; but this home was different. It came with them and maybe it would go down with them, who knew?

She shrugged off this unbidden idea. The cold was catching up, and she tried to fit in the quilt but somehow it seemed to be overflowing somewhere and not able to cover her well; having never had such experiences in the past she wondered about the lives common people led. How many of them had to deal with an ill-fitting quilt! In fact, did they all have quilts in this winter?

The roughness of the bricks, the way the mud and the bamboo pieces were connected together with strength and care, the way wooden pieces gave a structure to the house - everything seemed to convey respect for the erstwhile royals with elegance and beauty. The floor was of clay and mud, breathing coolness in the air on a hot summer day and warmth in the chilly winter. Though none of this comfort mattered now. Life itself had worn out for the three royals.  But for their progeny they mattered. They mattered until the very last breath of men and women in their kingdom.

Dhritarashtra ambled inside, feeling the roughness of the walls, the non-uniformity in the finishing and the absorbing gravity of the mud. His fingers touched the walls as if he were trying to gauge the emotions of the people who had built them - sadness or anger? Yes, he must know whether they were angry or sad. Were they furious, bubbling with vengeance? Oh, or was it just pity – plain, simple, humane pity for him and his family? What did these people feel while they were building this house? He wondered very much about the multiple possibilities the past could have had; perhaps just like a man ageing and succumbing to his sins at the same time!

A sudden, unbidden, unwelcome memory drifted into his mind. A memory of the way they had built the lac house for the Pandavas struck him. The ugly conspiracy and his own tacit knowledge of the same hit him hard! He managed to shrug off the uncomfortable memory, went back to his old train of thought. After so many days of living in this house, he wondered about the feelings of the Hastinapur citizens towards him and his wife. Or was it Kunti’s goodwill that had softened his citizens towards him? He wondered! Somehow, everyone else was dealing with their emotions better than him!

The roughness of the walls reminded him of the valor he had often showed in the field of wrestling and while putting his opponent down on his knees in the sand-filled arena, how he often had to make himself feel capable of the throne. The feeling, as his memory had it, was not natural but a forced one; one he wanted to feel seamlessly yet often he could not. Somewhere, that continuous evaluation of his capability by the elders had put him under much scrutiny of his own, about his prowess as a royal heir. There was always a need to prove his worth despite his awareness about his self-worth. It often unsettled him in the past. It forced him to think of the impact elders can have on youngers - they had almost crushed his confidence. He was strong but always conscious about proving his worth! But time had passed and he had evolved with it. The rawness of nature around him made him feel and wonder about the life he had been living and the decisions he had made; at the end, all of it had come down to this solitary state of man! It made him cringe as he sat on the rough bed, sweat beads forming all over his stiff muscles whose tension the cold wind failed to mitigate. He was burning inside, a fire not of vengeance but of self-realization, a fire of guilt in his awakened conscience. He sat there, sipping some water from the clay pot kept by Sanjay by his bed. As the water drizzled down his gut, his thirst was quenched and so was the burning fire, turning to ashes; it relieved him. He started searching for a quilt as a gust of coldness seemed to grapple with him in the approaching evening time.

The three erstwhile royals got into their cocoons as their minds travelled through paths of self-actualization, analysis of the society and the human nature as a whole while trying to find their places, their roles in it.

Outside, Kunti could see a gleaming moon in the sky, ruffling the leaves of the trees, playing games of hide and seek with him, while the stars twinkled and spoke of light and hope! The moon showed her a different shade of life, a shade she never had thought of before. The way it decayed and re-built, the way it shone even with borrowed light, the way it gave a sense of coolness even when around the hot burning sun; it was a lesson in detachment in a roundabout sense of self-discovery. One doesn’t let things hinder growth yet not encouraging it either! She wondered how her sons were getting along, after such a long time of roaming around kingdoms and forests. Did it feel awkward for them to live a royal life? Maybe, they also had learnt the art of rebuilding things after their decay by now. Perhaps, that’s life! To decay and yet rebuild with further zeal and fervor. To borrow and emit things as if your own; for what does man bring onto the earth while coming and what does he take when he leaves! There is nothing that belongs to him!

Foot notes –

This story of Mahabharata uses Mr. Kesari Mohan Ganguli’s English translation of the original Mahabharat and Dr. Deepti L. Sharma’s Chir Naveen Mahabharata for references.

After the war of Mahabharata, Yudhishthir, the Pandav king, regarded Dhritarashtra’s advice for all royal decisions and proceedings. Former King Dhritarashtra had become an enormous asset to him for his counselling along with Vidur. However, after a few years, Dhritarashtra along with Gandhari expressed their desire to leave for the forest, denouncing everything worldly behind. King Yudhishthir was laden with the responsibility and grief of killing his sons, and wanted to offer all services a father deserves from his son. However, the old couple were determined to embrace Sanyaasa. Sanjay, Dhritarashtra’s charioteer, who also was the man bestowed, by Sage Ved Vyas, with the power of divine vision to observe the war from the far corner of the Hastinapur palace, who shared every incident that happened in the battlefield in detail to the king, wanted to accompany him for the difficult phase of life in the forest. Kunti and Vidur followed suit, conscious of their approaching Vanprastha Ashram age. Together, they went and lived in a cottage in the forest near the River Ganga. What ensues in this narration is the description of imaginary meetings between these erstwhile royals and the various members of their clan, discussing their trials and tribulations after the mighty war of Kurukshetra.

Duhshala & Gandhari

H

earing the news that Duhshala had come to visit her, Gandhari could barely control her emotions. Her little princess, who she never thought would grow up and be a part of some different world in the kingdom of Sindhu, had come to see her after all. It rejoiced her soul. Having accepted the death of her hundred sons, Duhshala was the only child she was left with. Her memories had been vivid in her mind like a definitive presence, but it was after all just a blurred and vague memory!