Karna's Alter Ego (Abridged)

By Surendra Nath

The story of Karna’s Alter Ego is based on a legend from the Indian epic Mahabharata. Does one need to be acquainted with the epic to follow this novel?

NO. All one needs to know about The Mahabharata is there was a character named Karna, who was a much-talented hero, but luck was against him all the time, from his birth until his death. Indeed, gods plotted against him so that Arjuna (another heroic character) could kill him in the final battle. This abridged version is especially meant for those who may not be well-versed with Indian mythology.

The plot is entirely set in the present time and is about a modern protagonist named Vasu, who is quite like Karna – born illegitimate, very talented but denied all credits in life, rejected in love. He begins to identify himself with Karna. Vasu misses a medal in the Asian games, gets caught for telling an innocent lie and is overlooked for promotion. And interestingly Karna appears to him after every debacle to assuage and encourage him.

It seems Vasu is Karna’s alter ego; but will he, finally, break the jinx? Will he win the endgame? This is not a mythological tale but a contemporary take on mythology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Surendra Nath
• Release date: Nov 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370213382

Surendra Nath

Surendra Nath is a 60-year old retired naval officer, who has published two books. KARNA’S ALTER EGO (Dream House Publication 2015) received 4.2 star-rating from 66 readers (goodreads). This book was selected by the national library (Raja Ram Mohun Roy Library Foundation) and distributed to state-level libraries. KARNA’S CELESTIAL ARMOR is the sequel that is doing well as an indie eBook. He writes short stories several of which have been published in three different anthologies compiled by Ruskin Bond and published by Rupa Publications. He has contributed articles regularly to several magazines such as, 'The International Indian', 'Telelife', 'B2B digest' and 'Young Times' - all in Dubai, and Political and Business Daily in India. He has translated the first volume of poems of the national award-winning poet Padma Shri Haldhar Nag into English titled KAVYANJALI. This book was selected by Odisha government library (Hare Krushna Mahtab Library) for distribution to district level libraries. POLITICAL & BUSINESS DAILY carried a good review of the translation work. He was the editor and publisher of a national magazine for school children titled KLOUD 9. This quarterly magazine was conceived by him and was launched in May 2012. It is unique in that it publishes stories and poems written by school children from all over the country and abroad

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Preface

I have condensed the original 80,000-word novel to about 65,000 words (without the glossary) in this abridged version. In so doing, I have, at places, taken recourse to ‘telling’ instead of ‘showing’. I have had to replace some good dialogues and actions with third-person narratives. In the abridged version, I have omitted three chapters that had lesser significance. Nonetheless, I have tried to retain as much as possible the literary and evocative details. But to believe that an abridged novel can provide the same effect as the original one is like believing a photograph can capture all the intricate beauty of a painting.

But what is the purpose of the abridgment? To cut down on the reading time for one, but more importantly, it is to simplify the reading experience for those who are less familiar with Indian epics and scriptures. Here below is a gist of The Mahabharata for readers not familiar with the epic. There is an elaborate glossary at the end which amplifies the mythological incidents referred to within the story. Each chapter makes a little standalone story, and one may read on without heeding much to the mythological incidents mentioned now and again.

Surendra Nath

Gist of The Mahabharata

The kingdom of Hastinapur was ruled by the Kuru dynasty. Bhishma, the heir apparent, had sworn to his stepmother not to ascend the throne but, instead, let his stepbrother(s) be the king, while he would remain the guardian of the throne. It so happened, down one generation, two princes remained eligible. The elder, named Dhritarashtra, was blind. So, the younger, named Pandu, was crowned the king. But Pandu went to live in the jungle with both his wives on a self-imposed exile. So Dhritarashtra was made the regent to rule the kingdom on behalf of his younger brother. Bhishma, the eldest royal, continued to stand guard alongside the blind ruler.

In time, Dhritarashtra (wife- Gandhari) had 100 sons, known as the Kauravas (the eldest was Duryodhan), and Pandu (wife- Kunti and Madri) had five sons known as the Pandavas (viz. Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakul and Sahadeva). Pandu and Madri died in the jungle, and the widowed mother Kunti returned to the palace of Hastinapur with the five Pandavas.

Sometime much earlier, Karna had been born illegitimately to Kunti before her marriage. He made friends with Duryodhan and joined the Kauravas.

There arose a power struggle for the throne between the two sets of cousins. The kingdom was divided into two and given to the Kauravas and the Pandavas to rule independently. But it resolved nothing, and the bickering continued. At one point, in a game of dice (a kind of gambling game), the Pandavas wagered their entire kingdom and their queen, Draupadi, and lost everything to the Kauravas. In a charged atmosphere, the Kauravas attempted to disrobe Draupadi in a full court, because they considered her as their property. This, and several other causes, led to the ultimate war of Kurukshetra, in which nearly all kingdoms of India joined in, aligning themselves to one or the other side. The war lasted 18 days. Lord Krishna was on the Pandavas’ side, which won the war that turned out to be absolutely devastating.

The Dawn

DAWN WAS ABOUT TO BREAK. For Vasu, it was a dawn to remember, for today, at the age of twelve, he suddenly outgrew himself, when he learnt the truth about his birth, the truth about his parentage. And a maturity of several years ahead instantly dawned on him. Until the previous night, he had been a carefree, giggly, bubbly, chirpy slum urchin.

His father could not provide any better; after all, he was a wage earner at a roadside bike-repair shop. To add to their woes, he had this habit of absenting himself from work all too often. Moreover, on those days, he would end up drawing no wage, and to top that, he would borrow money from anyone who would oblige him and return home drunk. Vasu could not blame him much, though; he was like most fathers in the slum village, all illiterate and irresponsible. Vasu, until now, had resigned to his situations, considering them inescapable. He saw no avail in complaining about his father or his lot. However, his mother frequently rued that the man who once had had a good job as a mechanic at a factory in the nearby town had ruined it all with absenteeism and alcoholism – the vices that had never left him.

Vasu had been going to a regular school until three years ago. He looked back with nostalgia to those days at the prestigious D’Silva English Medium School. He used to wear a uniform and shoes and used to carry his school bag with a lunchbox inside. He reminisced about his old friends: we used to quarrel in the school bus for a seat, then we became friends and shared our lunch, and then again, we squabbled on who should be whose best friend. The school was like a fantasy world of which Vasu recounted many stories to his siblings, and with the narration of each episode, their eyes grew wider in awe. Mother felt prompted to make daintier dishes to pack in his lunchbox, now that he was sharing it. He loved everything about the school and soon proved himself to be one of the promising candidates in academics as well as in the co-curricular activities. His father, who had never been to school, was not very impressed though by Vasu’s tales. He often chuckled and muttered, his breath reeking of liquor, that he would have to report to the headmaster that the boys studied less and fought more at school. When Vasu was in class four, bad luck struck – his father lost his job, and he had to quit school. But he smiled away his misfortune. ‘At least we are now going to a new school where we get lunch,’ he told mother. ‘And we get plenty of free periods because many teachers remain absent.’ It was only fortunate that all three siblings were now going to a free school that provided midday meals. It was a project called Bal Jyoti Ashram, run by a reputed NGO.

That evening, Mother had fed them hot chapattis, straight from the hearth – two each for him and his younger brother Birju, and one for Vrinda, their younger sister. These days, mother rarely had an opportunity to cook anything beyond chapattis, boiled rice, and dal, and on rare occasions, a traditional curry with potatoes and onions, which was a treat to the family. That night, there was very little dal which Mother had placed in a bowl between the three of them, into which they dipped their chapattis and ate. They were used to such meagre accompaniments at meals. At times, an onion and a few chilies were all that there were to finish their food with, but they managed even with that little. Mother kept aside the last four chapattis – three for the children’s father and one for herself. Chapattis were always rationed; she counted and made the exact number for all to subsist on. She always ate last, after the father, and some days she didn’t get to eat at all. The children had their dinner in silence, that was occasionally broken by a wry remark by Vasu, while their mother watched them. ‘Go and sleep now,’ she directed them. ‘You have school tomorrow.’ Obediently, they lay down huddled in a corner and went to sleep while she waited by the fire for her husband to return home.

Like on most nights, he turned up drunk that night, past eleven o’clock. Vasu heard his father’s footsteps, unsteady and dragging, approaching the dusty doorway and closed his eyes pretending to be asleep. His younger siblings were already asleep.

‘Got something to eat?’ he asked his wife as he removed his shirt and threw it on the floor. ‘Or nothing, like always?’

‘Wash your hands, and sit down,’ Vasu heard his mother say. She served him his dinner. While he ate, Vasu heard them exchange their usual ‘un-pleasantries’, before his father grunted and asked, ‘Haven’t you another chapatti? Is that all you’ve cooked for me? All you want is to quarrel when I get home.’

Vasu knew what was to come next: Mother will give away the last chapatti meant for herself, he pictured in his mind, and sure enough, Mother handed Father her modest meal and said ‘Here, this is all and there is no more dal.’

‘Here, take this. Ten rupees,’ said father. ‘And don’t ask me for any money for another couple of days.’

‘Who did you borrow it from?’ she enquired, taking the money. ‘As it is, there is a horde of creditors every morning at our door.’

Father did not respond to that. Instead, he continued chewing on the last chapatti, while he swayed sitting cross-legged on the rough floor, unmindful if his wife had had any food at all. He always assumed she had eaten a few bites while cooking. But all she had that night, as on countless other nights, was a glass of water and then went to bed, but not before being bombarded by a barrage of obscenities and being slapped. Having digested the day’s supply of verbal and physical abuse, she huddled up next to her children and tried to sleep hugging Vrinda, her youngest child. Father slumped to the floor in the middle of the room and was soon snoring.

Outwardly, and to all acquaintances, Vasu appeared a happy-go-lucky boy, but there were times when he sat brooding over his life. Tonight was one such time when a pensive mood came over him and sleep completely eluded him. Nearly all night he lay restlessly, alongside his two siblings, wondering if they would ever be able to overcome their poverty, if he and his younger brother would ever secure decent employments, and if ever, he would get his little sister married off. ‘Living in this goddamn mud hut, with no certainty about the next meal, is no life,’ he mumbled. His mother caught a few words but did not respond.

After tossing in bed for hours, pondering over his miserable existence, he tiptoed out of the shanty and sat at the doorstep, feeling the nip in the breeze.

He was engrossed in thoughts of all the misery at home – the hunger, the abuse by creditors every morning, and the all too common fights between his parents – when he became aware that Mother had come up silently and was sitting next to him. They spoke very little, but Vasu knew that her children meant a whole world to her, and he, her firstborn, was the one she loved the most, deep down in her heart. It was no time to make casual comments like he often did; instead, he laid his head on her lap. No one knew Vasu more intimately, not even Vasu himself, as his mother did. She stroked his hair.

‘I don’t like Father,’ he spoke in a soft voice, taking care that his father sleeping inside did not hear him.

‘Shh...,’ said Mother as she turned back and peeped indoor. ‘Don’t speak like that. He is a good man. We are poor; what can he do? He has at least fed you, brought you all up.’

‘I understand, we are poor, but must he always treat you like this?’

‘Now keep quiet and go to sleep.’

For Vasu, sleep seemed distant. He thought of the friends he had at D’Silva English Medium School, kids who had gentle fathers who worked hard and earned good money, fathers who never quarreled and who took their children out in cars. Why is my father such? ‘You know Siddharth’s father? Siddharth, my friend from my previous school. His father never comes home drunk. Also, he brings chocolates, sweets when he returns home. They all sit together happily and talk and laugh and eat before going to bed.’

‘He is rich. All fathers cannot be the same.’

‘I know my father is poor. But we can be well off too, someday, if he stops borrowing and drinking. He doesn’t care for us.’

‘Vasu, my boy, when you grow up, we will be rich. Study hard now, and you’ll become an officer one day. You will earn; your brother and sister will have enough to eat. Then we will even have some snacks in the evenings.’

Father murmured something in his sleep, switched his posture and restarted snoring loudly, the rhythm of which seemed to synchronize oddly with the musical chirping of crickets, and occasionally the orchestra was punctuated by the hoots of an annoyed owl.

Vasu felt exasperated at how his mother always defended his father whenever they discussed him and diverted the talk towards Vasu’s colorful future. He kept quiet. He knew what she implied: that being the firstborn, he should be getting ready to take on the responsibility for the accursed family soon enough. He steeled himself, he understood his responsibility, it meant more than being able to afford all meals plus some evening snacks.

‘Promise, you will bring home snacks daily,’ entreated mother to cheer her boy up.

‘So that father can enjoy his booze with it!’

Mother slapped Vasu, and instinctively, hugged him soon after. They remained silent for a long time, peering into the darkness before she spoke again. ‘Vasu, I wish to tell you something.’

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘Promise me, you won’t agonize or lose sleep over what I tell you,’ she tried to extract a vague assurance from her twelve-year-old son. Vasu felt a morbid apprehension that his mother had something unpleasant to tell him. He looked across her into the room where his father, brother, and sister were sleeping. His mother too turned and looked in that direction, and then stretching herself backward, quietly pulled the door shut behind them. She turned her attention towards Vasu with a gesture of assurance that the others were not hearing them.

‘Yes, Mother?’ he repeated, raising his head from her lap, not knowing how else to assure her without himself being sure of what she had in mind.

‘You will not be too much bothered about what I’m going to tell you now, will you?

‘No, Mother,’ he assured dutifully not knowing the depth of what she was going to tell him. But he sensed that it was going to be the gravest thing she had ever told him.

With a straight face, she said, ‘You need to know that your father is...’ she gulped, ‘is not your... father.’

Vasu felt he was almost hit by a bolt. He imagined he had not heard her right, and continued to stare askance at her, wanting her to repeat or explain. But she said not much except, ‘Your father is another man. I had a bad experience with him before I married your father.’

Despite her confusing references to both men as ‘your father’, Vasu understood what she meant. His throat went dry, yet, he gathered enough responsiveness to ask, ‘Who is he, Mother? What’s his name?’

‘Ravindra, Ravindra Chaudhury. As a young girl, I worked as a domestic maid at his place when it happened.’

Vasu felt a ghastly concussion in the pit of his stomach, as if all blood had drained out of his body. He felt his chest along with his stomach heaving with great inhalations of air, the air he needed to quieten the welling disturbances in his mind. Though he was looking at his mother, his gaze pierced through and past her. His mind was bubbling over with questions – questions he wanted to ask himself, his mother, his father, and his other father.

Twilight was some time away, and the night was still bright with the stars shining and the moon fading. Mother hugged him, and he could feel that she too was breathing hard. She wondered if she had done right by disclosing her secret to him. But then she also knew there were some secrets that she could not carry to her grave. If she had to tell it, it was better she told it when he was still a child, rather than much later. As if to assure herself, she took a long breath and held in her right palm the tiny conch-shell locket that hung around her neck on a black thread and clenched it tight. Instantly she felt freer, relaxed, and the pace of her breath began to calm down.

Does father know this secret? Vasu wondered. ‘No one knows this for sure,’ said mother instinctively guessing what was going on in her son’s mind. She had covered her situation well; at most her husband might have only suspected for a while, but later, he had come to accept Vasu as his son. Her indiscretion had happened a few weeks before her marriage. ‘Poor that I was, that man tempted me with money, the money my family desperately needed,’ said mother unburdening herself and weeping copiously, before going indoors and leaving Vasu to come to terms with himself.

Vasu sat outside, by the door. He could not remember how long he sat there. Myriads of thoughts raced through his mind. Who was his father? Who – Ravindra Chaudhury, or Sarathi Sen, whom he had called ‘Father’ all this while? What about Birju and Vrinda; how were they related to him now? Would they reject him as their elder brother? Would his father accept him? Would his other father accept him? Why did Mother have to tell him all this now? Did she want him to leave home? Should he leave home? What do I do now with my new shameful status in the family?

At that instant, Vasu, all of a sudden, outgrew his own maturity. That’s what a profound revelation, at a tender age, does – it turns boys into men, it makes carefree, giggly, bubbly, chirpy kids into serious, resolute individuals. Vasu decided to rewrite his destiny; he decided to grow up not as an average slum kid, but as a topper, as a strong and independent man and to look after his mother and his family in the best possible way. He need not bother finding out about his biological father. In all probability, Ravindra Chaudhury did not know of his existence. Father, Sarathi Sen, never showed any malice towards him, perhaps he didn’t know of his son’s real parentage, or perhaps he knew of the secret and buried it deep inside him, in which case, despite his hopeless drunkenness, he ought to be put on a pedestal. Father had taken care of him in every way he could, and that now made him godlike in Vasu’s estimation. Inwardly, Vasu felt a surge of gratitude for his foster father.

While struggling to digest the new reality, Vasu experienced another awakening in his mind. Mother had the habit of reading stories to her children from the Mahabharata. His brother and sister were too young to understand much, but he used to listen to her with interest and, by and by, developed a liking for Karna. He had begun idolizing him as the greatest hero of the epic. Mother always read out with a particular passion when she came to the episode of Karna’s birth, and he always listened to it very animatedly.

After that morning’s revelation, the twelve-year-old Vasu started relating his circumstances entirely with those of Karna and felt innately attached to that mythological character. Thinking about Karna and his place in the myths seemed to make him come to terms with his own self; it offered him some solace. He lay down on the footstep and peace came over his tired mind. He finally fell asleep, in the crisp morning breeze.

In his sleep, he could feel Karna’s presence all around him. He saw Mother Kunti casting a little child away down River Aswa in a basket of wicker works. In his mind, Vasu followed the little boy floating along the Aswa, through the rivers Charmanwati and Yamuna and finally to the Ganges. How does a newborn survive the journey through the rivers? Vasu imagined himself floating effortlessly alongside the basket, and then he noticed that the boy had a radiance emanating from his body. He peeped closer to find the source of that brilliance – it came from a Kavach, the baby’s natural armor, and a pair of Kundals, his earrings. Vasu saw a charioteer pick up the floating child and carry it home. He saw the grown-up Karna challenging Arjuna and saw them fighting the ultimate battle at Kurukshetra. Just as Arjuna was about to kill Karna, Vasu awoke with a little start; he did not want the last part to happen, somehow, he did not want Karna dead.

It was dawn when Vasu woke up, and he saw his father leaving home. He had hopped across the lying Vasu, neither waking him up nor questioning him about lying on the doorstep. Father always left home that early, before creditors came looking for him. He would return well past the time any creditor would have the patience to wait for him. Mother bore the brunt of censures by all and sundry. It was a wonder for Vasu that Father still managed to borrow more money from people.

Vasu fell asleep once again, this time while sitting and leaning against the mud wall of his hut. Thoughts of Karna enveloped him once again. Presently, he perceived someone stooping over him and shaking him up. It was a tall, well-built and handsome man smiling down at him. ‘Father is not home. He owes you money?’ Vasu mumbled dreamily.

The man merely smiled, and Vasu realized he was not a creditor; creditors didn’t smile, they frowned. Such an impressive and elegant looking man, one would hardly come across,