THIRTY-THREE
Hastinapura was famed the world over for the excellence of her archers, who studied under the great Drona. Karna went straight to that city. It was evening. The day's lessons were over and he found Drona alone in his yard. The young man strode up to the master and saluted him. "Acharya, I want to learn archery from you. Take me as your sishya."
Drona looked curiously at the handsome youth. His instinct told him this boy was more than he seemed. He asked cautiously, "Who are you, young man?"
"I am Atiratha the suta's son. Karna."
At which, Drona knit his brows and said bluntly, "All my sishyas are kshatriyas, they have archery in their blood. I cannot teach a sutaputra."
Karna opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. How that 'sutaputra' scathed him. He glared at Drona as only a kshatriya could, turned on his heel and walked away. Drona stared after him. This was not how a sutaputra would behave; but then, the youth himself said he was a suta's son. Drona felt sure it was not the last he would hear of this charioteer's boy.
Meanwhile, Karna rode home, with the 'sutaputra' echoing in him like doom. He did not eat or drink anything for two days; nor would he answer his mother's anxious questions. Atiratha wisely left the boy alone.
From then on, this became a routine. Karna would announce to Radha that he was off to a distant town, or forest, where he had heard there was a renowned master of archery. But either the same evening, or after a few days, her son would return. He would look a year older, would answer none of Radha's questions and not eat for days. It was the same story each time: another guru had refused to take him in because he was a sutaputra.
At nights, Radha would hear him pacing his room, sleepless, or sobbing in the dark. But Atiratha refused to let her go to comfort their son.
"It's no use," the sarathy said. "He is meant to suffer until God finds a way for him. Who knows, it may be a better way, a greater master than he has dreamed of."
Then one day, he came to eat the morning meal with his parents and his eyes were alight. Radha sighed to herself. He had thought of another acharya to approach; and as surely as he went, he would be back soon, more desperate than ever. Radha had begun to fear her son might take his life.
But that morning Karna was uncommonly cheerful and his parents did not ask him where he was going. They were so relieved to see him back to his old bright self again. Embracing them, he said, "I won't be back for a long time. When I return I will be the best archer in the world, because I am going to learn from the greatest master. God was only leading me to him, that the others refused to take me in."
"Who is this acharya?" his doubtful mother asked.
"I will tell you when I come back!"
And he was gone. The previous night, Karna had a dream in which the mysterious woman, who he now felt certain was his mother, came to him again. She had whispered the name of the master to whom he was going. As he went along, Karna asked himself a thousand times whether he was not being foolish. He had heard about the master's legendary temper and he would have to lie if he were to persuade him to accept him as his sishya. But Karna was prepared to take that risk. He had decided his life was not worth living, anyway, unless he could become an archer.
It was to no ordinary guru that Karna was going, but to an Avatara. He had decided to approach Parasurama Bhargava to teach him. Karna had a plan. Being a sutaputra, he was both a brahmana and a kshatriya; and of course, neither of these when it mattered. He knew how Bhargava hated the kshatriyas. A kshatriya had murdered his father Jamadagni and Parasurama had let flow a river of warriors' blood.
He was calmed now, that his revenge was complete; and he had played no part in the affairs of the world since Rama of Ayodhya had confronted him. Bhargava sat in tapasya to purify himself of the sins of all the killing he had done. But Karna was wise enough and worldly enough by now, to know that Parasurama would never teach a kshatriya. But if he told the master that he was a brahmana— that rarest of brahmanas, who wanted to be an archer—surely, he would not turn him away. And to say he was a brahmana was only half a lie.
After many days, Karna arrived on the tangled slopes of the southern mountain, Mahendra. After climbing some hours, he saw a sequestered tapovana ahead of him. There, under a majestic banyan tree, he saw Bhargava, his eyes shut, like a flame. But he was quiescent now, all his vast energy turned inwards. His heart beating wildly, Karna approached the guru.
Parasurama sat lost to the world. Karna stood with folded hands, not daring to make a sound. At last, the Avatara's eyes fluttered open and gazed into Karna's deepest soul. Parasurama said, "Who are you, young man?"
Karna threw himself at Bhargava's feet and cried, "Lord, I have come to you with my heart full of hope. Please don't turn me away, you also!"
Parasurama saw the youth was in tears. He said gently, "What is it you want from me, child?"
"Take me as your disciple. I am a brahmana, but I want to be an archer. And no master will have me, saying they teach only kshatriya princes. You are my last resort. If you don't accept me I will kill myself."
Parasurama laid his palm on the striking youth's head, blessing him. "From today, young Brahmana, you are my disciple. I will teach you everything I know. What is your name?"
"Karna."
Thus began the tutelage of Karna, son of Surya Deva and Kunti, adopted son of Atiratha the suta and his Radha. In many ways, those were the best days of his life. Holding a bow in his hands finally was like being born into his dreams. The cruel world paled and all the times he had been called sutaputra. Karna was absorbed in learning from his profound and, he discovered, kindly master. He even forgot the woman of his dreams and she never came to haunt him in Parasurama's asrama.
The guru discovered this sishya was an extraordinary pupil. He had never seen a young man as gifted as Karna; be it archery or the Vedas, the youth was completely devoted to whatever he studied. He drank thirstily at the profound font his master was.
Yet Karna thought of the archer's martial knowledge rather differently from what most young men did. To him that knowledge would make him powerful; power would bring fame; and fame meant everything to him, it meant honor to the sutaputra. What else was worth living for in this harsh world?
Came the day, after three years, when Parasurama said to his brilliant disciple, "The time has come for you to acquire the final gyana that any archer can have."
"What will I learn, master?" cried Karna, loving every challenge.
"The devastras."
One winter's morning, having bathed in the frothy stream, Karna sat before his guru just as the rising sun lit the horizon. Parasurama intoned the mantras that invoke the astras of the Gods of light. Suddenly the mountain air was full of awesome spirits bearing unearthly gifts of weapons. The astras appeared, phosphorescent before the master and his pupil. When Karna chanted their mantras, those weapons flashed into his body and then on were his to command. Karna acquired all the astras that could be had in this world, even the brahmastra and the bhargavastra.
Parasurama embraced Karna. "It seems the Gods have blessed you; you are the best sishya I ever had. And what pleases me even more than your genius are your humility, your affection and, most of all, your honesty.
You are a master of the devastras now, an invincible warrior. I have one final piece of advice for you, which by itself is worth everything else you have learnt from me. You must use your powers only in the service of dharma. The other way, the path of sin, leads to death."
The sun was overhead. Parasurama said, "I am tired. Go back to the asrama and fetch a roll of deerskin. I want to fall asleep here, beneath this tree."
"Why wait until I fetch the skin? You can use my lap for a pillow."
Bhargava patted Karna's cheek. The sishya sat cross-legged under the spreading banyan and his guru lay with his head in his lap. In no time, he was asleep, snoring softly. Karna also shut his eyes and was lost in anxious thoughts. His master had called him honest. But was he that? Hadn't he lied about being a brahmana? Wasn't his more a thief's way, than an honest man's? Then he thought, 'I lied only to learn from my guru. I have served him faithfully and been a deserving pupil. He himself said I am the best sishya he ever taught; there is no sin in what I did.' But these tangled anxieties gave Karna no peace.
Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his leg and almost cried out. He dare not move lest he wake his master. He saw a strange insect had crawled on to his thigh. It was as big as his thumb and looked like a tiny wild boar. The creature had tusks and needle-sharp teeth, with both of which it now gouged out good mouthfuls of his flesh and champed on the raw meat and swilled the blood.
Karna was in agony. But he did not stir. His guru's arms lay across his own hands, so he could not move these either. Gritting his teeth, Karna sat on. Finally the blood from the insect's feast flowed on to Parasurama's face and he awoke and sat up.
"Where did this blood come from?"
"An insect bit me," said Karna casually, plucking the offending creature from his skin and throwing it down.
Bhargava saw the wound in his pupil's thigh. He saw the black insect, covered in Karna's blood. Parasurama stared hard at Karna. Very softly, he said, "That thing tore at your thigh for a long time. The pain must have been intolerable, but you did not move."
"I would have disturbed you if I moved. I paid no mind to the pain."
"Pain?" Parasurama's eyes had begun to smolder dangerously. "It must have been agony. But you didn't move."
"I didn't want to wake you," repeated Karna, growing confused at his master's accusing tone. He thought his guru would be pleased by his devotion.
But Parasurama was on his feet, his face a picture of suspicion. "You told me you are a brahmana, but no brahmana on earth could bear such pain. You lied to me, Karna; you are a kshatriya, aren't you? Tell me the truth!"
Karna stood shaking before his master. Parasurama breathed, "I have given the devastras to a lying kshatriya. For three years I kept you with me, taught you everything I know and it was all a lie!"
Karna fell at his feet. "I am a sutaputra. I had to become an archer and no one would teach me. Forgive me, my lord. I am not a brahmana, but I am not a kshatriya either. The wise say that true knowledge knows neither caste nor creed. Be merciful, Guru, I couldn't bear it if you were angry with me."
The rishis are masters of their emotions; but at times, anger overwhelms the strongest of them. Parasurama was no exception. He was livid, blind with rage. Forgotten were Karna's humility, his devotion, his brilliance; all Bhargava saw was a betrayal, an aggression against himself, a violation.
Parasurama was an Avatara; he had sat for centuries in dhyana. Yet now fate stirred him more than he could bear. Bhargava cursed Karna: "One day, when you invoke the brahmastra, when you need it for your very life, you will forget its mantra. Why, that day you will forget the mantras of all the astras I have taught you!"
Karna knelt, aghast, before his master. "Oh, my lord, do I deserve this? You are too harsh."
As soon as he had cursed Karna, Parasurama's rage seemed to cool. He said more gently, "I cannot take back my curse. But it was seeking fame that you came here, for fame that you lied to me. Sutaputra, I bless you now that your name will be a legend across the earth and men will say you were the greatest archer who ever lived."
For a moment more, the guru stared at his stricken sishya. Then he turned and walked away from him forever. For a long time Karna lay hugging himself, sobbing. Then, slowly, he rose and went down to the stream and washed his face. He bathed the wound in his thigh, where the fateful insect had gorged. Still moaning now and again, he made his way down the mountain.
The world around him assumed a miasmic quality, as Karna wandered along in a daze. He hardly noticed the lands through which he walked, eating if someone fed him, drinking if he came across a river or a stream. Otherwise, he was quite content to stagger on, starved and thirsty, not knowing where he was, not caring if he lived or died. Dark hallucinations beset him, visions of death. And now, the woman of his dreams appeared clearly to him, even while he was awake. He spoke feverishly to her, at times calling her mother and begging her to release him from his torment; at others, he cursed her for his wretched fate. People of the villages and towns he passed blindly through, would stare at the bizarre wayfarer, who, with his fine bow and quiver, seemed to be a noble kshatriya. Plainly, he was demented with some unbearable sorrow.
At last, he arrived at the western sea and collapsed on a deserted beach. Only gulls screamed above him, as he lay in a swoon, lost in the ebb and flow of the waves. At nights, when the tide came in, he allowed the silver foam to wash over him as if he hoped the sea might wash away his pain. During the day he lay on his back, staring at the azure sky above him. The sound and the touch of the waves were like sacrament to him. Slowly, the ocean began to heal the wound in his heart.
One day, when he rose from a dreamless sleep, he felt impelled to worship the rising sun. When he had done this he felt hungry again, ravenous. He scrabbled about in the shallow water and caught some crabs, which he broke open and ate raw. But their scant flesh only whetted his raging hunger. Out of the corner of his eye, some way off, he saw a pale animal's form flash across the beach. His hand moved quicker than his mind. Before he knew what he was doing, he seized up his bow and shot an unerring shaft at the beast he thought was a deer.
He saw the creature fall with a bellow. Karna ran toward his kill, salivating at the prospect of a feast of venison. To his horror, he found he had killed a white cow. The barb stuck like a curse from her side. She gazed at him from her great soft eyes, full of pain, before she shut them forever. Now a brahmana appeared, fell across the dead animal and set up a loud wailing. He sobbed over the cow as if he had lost his own child.
"I didn't know she was a cow," cried Karna. "I thought she was a deer and I have been starving for a long time. Forgive me, Brahmana; I swear I will give you a hundred cows for the one I killed."
"Cruel, ignorant Kshatriya, if you kill a man's only child can you give him another one in its place? The cow was like my own daughter. I curse you, heartless warrior! When you face your deadliest enemy in battle, your chariot-wheel will become mired in the earth. When you get out to free it, your enemy will cut you down when you least expect to be killed. Just as you have my cow today."
Without another word, the brahmana walked away. Karna's roars echoed across that empty beach, so the gulls wheeled away in alarm. He fell on the sand and rolled about in a frenzy, howling with the brahmana's curse. Great healing from the sea had come to him today and this morning he had found his God, his ishta devata: the splendorous Sun. He had thought his troubles were over. How wrong he had been.
In a while, the panic drained from his body and he sat staring numbly across gray waves. Above him, storm clouds had gathered like some dark portent. A realization dawned on young Karna. For the first time, he admitted a terrible truth to himself: from the very beginning, his life was a cursed one. He had been born into this world only to expiate some terrible sin from another birth. Fortune would never smile easily on him. What other men took for granted, like an ordinary childhood and a hereditary vocation, were chimerical for him. He was a freak of nature, a damned child of the earth. He must find the strength to accept that, to bear it manfully.
Karna sat somber, as a drizzle began. Then the heavens opened and torrents lashed that beach, the solitary warrior and the carcass of the cow he had killed. He sat on, drenched to the bone. And then, he thought of the one person he loved more than anyone else, she who loved him like her very life. Karna thought of his mother Radha. Tears welled in his eyes; he rose and set out on the long way back home.
Such a welcome she gave him. She clasped him to her, laughed and cried and babbled everything she had wanted to say to him all these years he had been away. She kissed him again and again. Then his father embraced his son. Atiratha had new respect in his eyes when Karna told them he had been Bhargava's disciple and was now a master archer himself.
But he did not tell them about Parasurama's curse or the curse of the brahmana on the beach. Karna had left home a boy; he returned a man, who knew he was not one of fate's favored children. Not all his mother's love could remove the twin curses that hung over him. But if he told her about them, it would break her heart. Karna kept the secret locked away inside him like some dangerous treasure.
He stayed at home for a month after his return. Radha saw how thin he had grown and never stopped feeding him. Then one day, he said he must go and seek his fortune in Hastinapura. In that city they would recognize him for what he was: the greatest bowman on earth.
And so, Karna, natural son of Kunti and Surya Deva, adopted son of Atiratha and Radha, the Pandavas' eldest brother, though they would never know it while he lived, set out for the capital of the Kurus, where his destiny lay in wait for him like an ominous shadow.