ELEVEN
The sun sets, but Duryodhana sits unmoving in his tent, paralyzed. His mind is also blank, until he remembers the day of the exhibition in Hastinapura again, the day he first saw Karna. How glorious Karna had been on that day, when he put Arjuna in the shade. Duryodhana sees his friend once more. He sees him so clearly, he can reach out and touch his face.
A sob tears itself out from the Kaurava’s very entrails. The vision of the exhibition fades and that of Karna with it. He remembers where he is and what has happened. It is midnight now and no one is about. A stark compulsion seizes Duryodhana: he has to see Karna at once. Not caring to cover himself against the cold, he stumbles out into the night. Like a beast of the wild to its dead mate, Duryodhana runs to where Karna lies.
A bronze moon has risen into the sky and hangs low over Kurukshetra. By its burnished light, Duryodhana finds his friend, cut in two by Arjuna’s arrow. Tenderly, the Kaurava picks up the severed head. He strokes its handsome face, its eyes shut in sleep forever. He kisses those eyes, the proud lips curled in their last smile, mocking death. Duryodhana gathers Karna’s headless trunk in his arms and sits on the ground, mourning.
Suddenly panic grips him. He jumps up like a madman and dashes here and there, sobbing and laughing, crying Karna’s name to the moon. He plunges across the field, falling over the corpses of Kurukshetra, while grief dissects his heart. Summoned by a subtle impulse, Duryodhana runs to his Pitama on his bed of arrows. Sobbing, he falls to his knees beside Bheeshma.
Painfully, the patriarch stirs. He reaches out a gnarled hand and strokes Duryodhana’s head. Tears in his aged eyes, he says, “Don’t grieve for Karna, my child. His death was fated and he is happy now. He was a kshatriya and he died as a kshatriya should. He is at peace.”
Duryodhana stiffens. His voice quivering with excitement, he whispers, “So I was right! Karna was a kshatriya, all along. Tell me who he was, whose son. I must know everything. Tell me, Pitama! I must tell the world. At least now let them know he was a kshatriya and they taunted him vainly.”
His hand trembles in the patriarch’s. Bheeshma says, “I cannot tell you who Karna was, unless you swear you will tell no one else. It was his own wish that no one should know; not even you, until he was dead.”
Puzzled, that Karna kept something from him that Bheeshma knew, Duryodhana says, “If he wanted it kept a secret, would I ever tell anyone? I swear it will not pass my lips. Tell me, Pitama!”
Bheeshma hesitates. “Can you bear what I have to tell you? You are already unhinged with grief.”
Duryodhana says, “I have seen Karna lying on the field with his head cut from his body and I am still alive. My heart is made of stone; it can bear anything. Tell me, Pitama, who was he?”
His grandsire says, “Listen, then. I will tell you because you must know how much he loved you. Duryodhana, Karna was Kunti’s eldest son.”
Duryodhana reels. He clutches Bheeshma’s hand and breathes, “The Pandavas’ brother! Tell me more.”
Under the witnessing moon, Bheeshma tells him all about Karna’s tragic life. He tells him about Surya Deva, whom Kunti invoked and of the child born of the Sun’s visitation. He tells him how Kunti floated her infant on the river, how Atiratha saw the wooden box and took the golden child home. Of Karna’s dreams, Bheeshma tells the Kaurava and how he discovered he was not the suta’s son; how he wanted to be an archer and was refused by every master in the land, until he went to Parasurama. Bheeshma tells Duryodhana about Bhargava’s curse and the brahmana’s, how Karna gave away his kavacha and kundala to Indra and, finally, when Karna himself discovered who he was, when Krishna told him. The Kuru patriarch tells Duryodhana how, just before the war, Kunti went to her firstborn son and begged him to join his brothers’ army, as their king. Bheeshma tells Duryodhana what Karna’s answer had been. ‘I will never abandon Duryodhana. He is the only one who ever loved me and I love him more than my life.’
Duryodhana listens to him in silence, his tears dripping onto the old man’s hands. Bheeshma falls silent. Duryodhana says, “He knew and he still stayed with me. He died by his own brother’s hand for my sake, because he loved me so much. Why am I not dead? Why doesn’t this heartless earth open and swallow me for what I have done?”
Duryodhana whispers feverishly, “Karna, my friend, there is nothing left to live for when you are gone. Not now, that I know how you loved me: more than I had dreamt. I am coming to you soon, my brother, very soon.”
Bheeshma says, “Karna was the noblest man that lived in our times and he has found the heaven he deserves.”
Duryodhana says quietly, “Nothing can hurt me now that I have heard who my Karna was and what he did for me. Pitama, I do not want the kingdom any more, for which this war is being fought. Now that Karna is not here, with whom I can share it, I don’t want it at all. I want nothing but to die and I will die a noble death. You will see, Pitama, how this grandson of yours dies. You will be proud of me. I promise you: at last, you will be proud of your Duryodhana. I must leave you now, I must prepare for death.”
A smile lights Duryodhana’s face, one of such relief, almost of peace: the smile of a man who has finally found his true direction. He kisses Bheeshma’s hand, then, rises quickly and walks away. Bheeshma lies on his incredible bed under the moon and his tears flow for his grandson, for all his grandsons. There is also a new light in his eyes. He can feel the war drawn near its end and his own life, as well.