Pradyutita: Jaya!, #1

By Geetha Krishnan

In Hastinapura, Atiratha and Radha find a baby floating in the river. In the palace, the impotent King Pandu is forced to abdicate the throne while his bastard half brother Vidura conspires with his queen Kunti. The blind King Dhritarashtra struggles against his autocratic uncle while the sage Vyasa fights desperately to avert a power struggle within the Kuru family. This is the saga of Mahabharata, as it has never been told before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geetha Krishnan
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201712945

Geetha Krishnan

Geetha Krishnan is an author of books derived from the rich and vast spectrum of Indian mythology. A practising Hindu, their books show their deep knowledge of the religion and customs of ancient India. Their books have won many accolades and have been universally praised for the twists they bring to their retellings. Their books Ayana and Pradyutita have made it to the semi finals of SPFBO 2019 and 2020 respectively, and their short story, The Forgotten Son has won an Honourable Mention in The Writers of the Future Contest. Durga was the Runner up of the Rev PIt 2020. 

Book preview

BOOK ONE OF JAYA!

GEETHA KRISHNAN

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First published by Geetha Krishnan 2018

Copyright © 2022 by Geetha Krishnan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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This book started with an idea. An idea that was not originally mine. An idea that began with reading an interview with the great Bibek Debroy who translated the Critical Edition of the Mahabharata into English.

For those not familiar with it, the Critical Edition was a work that is considered the most authentic version of the Mahabharata, and its compilation took almost 5 decades. 48 years of research by various scholars and experts of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute (BORI) led to its making, and for the longest time, there were no translations available, making the work inaccessible to all but Sanskrit scholars. However, with Debroy’s translation, that changed.

Mahabharata has always been one of my passions, and in his preface to the Critical Edition, Debroy had stated something that he repeated in the interview I read. It was a controversial take, but it sparked the idea for this book.

I had always wanted to write a book with Karna as the centre, one which stripped the epic of its glamour and delved into the darkness it hid within. And when I read that interview, and later the preface to CE before delving into it, it was as if something clicked. Debroy opined in both places that Arjuna was a later interpolation as were the twins, and that in his view, the original epic had only two Pandavas.

If the epic had only two Pandavas, then who was the archer who won Draupadi’s hand, who married Subhadra, who became friends with Krishna, changing the very course of history? There are grounds to believing that this could have been Bheema since there are versions of Mahabharata where Bheema wins the contest for Draupadi’s hand. However, in those versions, it was wrestling contests rather than archery contests that Bheema wins. In view of that, I was forced into considering that the archer was actually Yudhishtira himself, that if Arjuna was indeed a later interpolation, then he was created from the best parts of Yudhishtira.

This was the kernel from which this story was born. As for the rest of it, as everyone knows, history is written by the victors, and it is my belief that the inconsistencies of the epic as well as the various interpolations arose in an attempt to erase and rewrite the history of what actually happened.

So, here is my version of what really happened, stripped of magic and miracles, and gods; it is still a godly tale, a tale of great deeds and small, of small men and large, a story that does encompass all that is good and bad within ourselves, and around us.

Geetha Krishnan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY ONE

THIRTY TWO

THIRTY THREE

THIRTY FOUR

THIRTY FIVE

THIRTY SIX

THIRTY SEVEN

THIRTY EIGHT

THIRTY NINE

FORTY

FORTY ONE

FORTY TWO

FORTY THREE

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

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THE NIGHT WAS JUST FALLING as the great sage Vyasa made his tired way to the palace of Hastinapura. It was always night, whenever he visited, or so it seemed to him. Words hung heavy inside him, so many words that he longed to speak, so many questions he needed to ask, so many accusations, fears... And yet, he felt like his very will had been sapped by the news he’d received. He was barely aware of the guards opening the gates for him, or of the escort of soldiers who led him to the palace. He was still numb with shock, and the part of him that was still capable of thinking, warned him that seeking this meeting when he was not at his best was probably not the smartest thing he’d done. But it was too late to reverse it. He was here.

Sage Vyasa. Someone bowed to him respectfully, bending down to touch his feet.

The sage recognized Bheema, the younger brother of Yudhishtira, the Maharaja of Hastinapura. His hands rose automatically in benediction, as the words fell from his lips almost like a reflex. Ayushman Bhavah! May you live long.

Bheema rose and stood respectfully to one side, allowing Vyasa to precede him to the palace. There was something very familiar about it all, and it seemed to Vyasa that it had been in another lifetime that he had stood at this very threshold, blessing another with these very words. The past hung heavy over the palace, and he could feel a void inside him, a void where his brothers once lived, where his sons once lived.

My brother has requested that you rest for tonight, and he will meet you in the morning, Bheema’s voice filtered to his mind. The voice was unsteady, slurred, and Vyasa turned to look into the red-rimmed swollen eyes of the man. He was still as handsome as ever, though his eyes appeared sunken, and his face appeared gaunt with the shadow of a beard evident on his face. His moustache was not as neatly trimmed as it normally was, and his hair appeared unkempt. The once magnificent physique of the strongest man in Aryavarta had begun to be more fat than muscle these days. The sage nodded almost automatically as he turned. A man appeared in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere. But then, the palace of Hastinapura was full of hidden doors and corridors. No doubt, the man stepped out from one of those.

Sthapathi, Bheema’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, as the new man bowed. See to it that our illustrious guest is made comfortable for the night.

Bowing to Vyasa once again, Bheema departed, and only now was Vyasa’s mind catching up, and he began to see the reason for the shadow on Bheema’s face, his unsteady gait, the slurred words, his red eyes, his refusal to walk before him, all of which stemmed not from respect, or grief but from vastly different reasons, and Vyasa sighed. He could not blame Bheema for seeking solace in wine. Had he not been a sage, he would have done the same.

The Sthapathi was still waiting for him, and Vyasa nodded to him. He led him through a corridor that was no different from any other he’d been through. The present Sthapathi was not as corpulent as Sravana. He was taller and was beginning to flab and would soon be almost a replica of Sravana. The look of anxiety on his face was very similar to that of Sravana.

The room to which he’d been led... the sage paused at the threshold and surveyed the room. It was a large apartment, luxurious, with colourful tapestries adorning the wall, a comfortable looking bed with silk sheets on it, and a rich carpet on the floor. The Sthapathi must be certainly inexperienced if this was the room they gave a sage. Vyasa found he had no energy to argue or be angry, so he merely nodded as he entered the room. The Sthapathi left soon, leaving Vyasa in the midst of luxuries he did not know what to do with.

I knew that man had no sense, a warm, gravelly voice spoke as a man moved forward from the shadows.

He was tall, well-built but beginning to be soft around the middle, with sharp eyes, a firm chin and mouth, and wavy hair. His moustache was thick, but not overly so. He was certainly handsome, and his wide open eyes gave him a look almost of innocence. The scars on his arm from the bow were still prominent though Vyasa doubted if he still practiced. His high cheekbones were not so conspicuous these days, probably because his cheeks had fleshed out more. All these details Vyasa took in, just as he’d taken in Bheema’s unkempt appearance, in the space it took him to draw a breath. It was habit with him now, the observation.

Yudhishtira, Vyasa said, feeling suddenly numb.

Yudhishtira’s sudden appearance was egregious, yet Vyasa recovered his composure almost immediately. He had sought this meeting after all, had travelled all this way just to meet him. And yet, now that he saw that smiling face before him, he could not voice all the thoughts, all the rage that had filled him at the time he heard the news of the forest fire which had killed Dhritarashtra and Vidura as well as Gandhari and Kunti. Yudhishtira did not look like a man who was lamenting his mother’s death, and Vyasa could not feel angry, not even when he thought of all the things Kunti had done for this son of hers. When he heard the news, he knew that the cause for the fire had not been natural, especially since it happened immediately after Yudhishtira and Bheema had visited, and Vidura had had a private conversation with Yudhishtira. He wondered what he had said that had made Yudhishtira decide he’d lived long enough. 

Why did you do it? When he asked it, the sage’s voice held resignation rather than anger. He sounded tired. He was tired.

Yudhishtira smiled. To his credit, he neither denied it nor pretended not to know what Vyasa was talking about. Vidura? He knew the truth. He had to be silenced. The others were.... collateral damage.

The sage stared at the man, aghast. He should not have been surprised. He’d lived long enough and seen enough of human nature to be surprised by anything, but this man was beyond his comprehension. He was so indifferent to all that he did that he seemed hardly human. Yet, Vyasa had seen his ambition, his desire, the flame that burned inside him. He was very much like Vidura in that respect. But at the core of his being, Yudhishtira was untouched by anything, supremely indifferent, and hence capable of any heinous act without feeling the least regret.

What now? Vyasa asked quietly. Are you going to kill me too? I too know the truth.

I did consider it. But no. I’ve a better idea. Yudhishtira paused. I heard you’ve taken in four new disciples.

There was a moment of silence. Vyasa felt a sliver of fear pierce his heart. He was not frightened for himself, but the four youngsters did not deserve to die for his mistakes. And he did not want to have another void in his heart, in his life. He’d lost his brothers, his sons, and many grandchildren. He’d lost even great grandchildren. He did not want to lose these four children who were all the comfort he had left. He could see clearly his own foolishness in coming here, and yet there was nothing he could do now. It was just another in the long list of foolish decisions he had made, lives he had endangered, regrets he had.

Someone told me their names, Yudhishtira intoned. Paila, Vaisambayana, Jaimini and Sumantu. Do I have it right?

What do you want from me? Vyasa was so exhausted, he didn’t want to fight any more.

Yudhishtira smiled, but there was no humour there, and his eyes were hard. Finish the song you composed for my victory. And that song shall be all the history the future generations will know. None shall ever know the truth.

You want me to lie.

You have already lied, old man. That song is full of lies already. I just want you to finish what you started. But there is no compulsion. Paila accompanied you here, I believe.

Vyasa stared at the man, petrified, as the full import of what he’d done penetrated to his brain. Paila did accompany him there, not wanting his teacher to travel alone when he was so distraught. And the young boy was at one of the guest houses, waiting for his teacher to return from the palace.

All right, the sage whispered. But remember, Yudhishtira, the truth shall not remain hidden forever! You cannot kill everyone who knows it!

No, Yudhishtira agreed. But then I think we’ve already established that I don’t need to, haven’t we?

You can’t blackmail everyone either, Vyasa said, grasping at straws.

Get some sleep, grandfather, Yudhishtira’s eyes on him were mocking and pitiless. You’ll need your strength if you’re to compose the detailed tale of my victory.

Once alone in the room, Vyasa sat on the floor, drawing deep breaths to calm himself down. Grandfather, Yudhishtira had called him, acknowledging the relation in mockery that everyone knew of and no one ever acknowledged. At least, that was something he would not need to lie about, though he would have to lie about everything and everyone else. The song he’d composed was a song of Victory, ‘Jaya’ and now, he would need to compose something else- an Itihasa, the story of the Bharatas; he would need to compose a Mahabharata. But before the lie, he would cast his mind once more over the truth, over the true story of the Bharatas.

THE NIGHT LAY SILENT, blanketing the landscape in a dark shroud. The moon was a sickle in the sky, not giving enough light to illuminate the earth. The shadowy outline of a large building was barely discernible. The faint light of the moon shimmered over the surface of the river nearby. The night was cold though Sharad had not yet given way to Hemanta.

The sound of an oar splashing broke the silence, and a boat came gliding by, a small lantern bobbing on its prow. It was a small boat, similar to the ones used to transport passengers and goods from one bank to the other. But unlike such ferry boats, this one was covered, almost like one of the pleasure boats used by the nobility.

Halt here, a