KUNTI
Ossature of Maternal Conquest & Reign
No mother can ever love each of her sons
alike. You should know, Draupadi, you who own
two five-chambered hearts, the smaller for your sons,
the first for husbands. Yes, Karna is my son,
my firstborn, forged as a shaft of living light –
rare, brilliant – but an accident, a son
I neither desired nor envisioned, the son
born of an unsought boon, arcane spell that moved
from a sage’s lips to mine: power to move
much more than mountains or oceans—for a son
from a god could rule creation, etch your name
on myth and history, get planets renamed.
Draupadi, you ask why I left him unnamed
all these years, why I never hailed him, my son
Karna, as mine: Karna the fulgent, the name
any parent would rejoice, would vie, to name
as theirs. No, I never proclaimed him my own,
though not because he’s baseborn, unnameable,
as the bards will soon sing. For who would not name
the scion of Surya, the Sun God who lights
the world? Vyaasa too, esteemed sage, alighted
out of wedlock—yet his mother takes his name
with joy and pride. Karna was an unplanned move:
at first, that enjoined silence. Too young, too moved,
was I to resist the Sun God. When he moved
towards me, eyes locking mine, I blazed; nameless
flames of purple and copper and crimson moved
through veins, our limbs dissolved, my womb glowed. Life moved
between our thighs, taut and sinuous. But sons,
like pleasure, should serve a purpose: I had moved
Karna from my sphere for I saw none, moving
swiftly before my faithless heart could disown
good sense. I sailed the child away from his own
kismat, down Ganga’s arms—first having removed
all signs of kinship, save his father’s lighted
armour and earrings, bequest to save, to light,
his life. Years later, when his fearsome skills lit
up Hastina’s skies, I knew at once: he moved
in cursives, he quelled like a god, and the light
from his earrings drowned midnight. But aurous light
is too firm, too pure to rule the realm—namely,
not in suta-breeding lies his flaw, backlit
that day by brilliance; no, it is lightness
Karna lacks. A mother needs most from her son
compliance, chiefly to reign—the perfect son
for that is Yuddhishtir, well-trained, just half-lit
by resolve. Were I now, in public, to own
Karna, none of my sons, Child, would ever own
Kuru: Karna would crown Duryodhan owner
of earth, cede this war unfought, all to highlight
his friend’s birthright. I’d rather sever my own
breath first! And hence I met him in stealth: I owned
the truth, he learnt we’re kin. For now when he moves
in battle, he’ll know that his siblings, his own
blood, face him; know either victory is owned
by fratricide. Arjun is the only name
he’ll not spare—for their rivalry has been named
by heaven, he says; they’ll duel till death owns
one, that is written. But I’ll still have five sons,
when war ends, he swears. Who that last living son
will be rests on who can best perform a son’s
role, Karna or Arjun, who’s armed in his own
innocence; Arjun, whose arrows will delight
to greet his foe while sorrow mires Karna’s moves.
A hero bears no shame, no grace, just his name.
VRISHALI
Testament: Vrishali with Duryodhana
He is dead. Karna is dead, I
fear, for blood shrouds the moon, the stars
and your eyes. For light dies. For air
bruises my breath (thorns bloom in these
breasts). For words drown in your throat, King:
silence vanishes tomorrow.
He is dead – he must be – for why
else would a king arrest the war,
forsake field and forces, repair
to our doorstep, sink to his knees,
bareheaded, bereft, unspeaking,
and lay at my feet this mighty bow?
He is dead, yes—Vijaya, my
husband’s bow, would never stray far
from Karna’s flank, never forswear
its master’s hands, unless he ceased –
the truth screams through bowstrings – breathing.
O King, speak – unleash – your sorrow,
roar: He is dead! O Sun, deny
no more your wretched heart: blaze, char
this world of unending despair.
Let nothing rest, no birds, no bees,
no gods, no human beasts. Nothing
but grieving clouds who should echo
He is dead. He, who’d defy
gods in their heaven, who could mar
the pride of monarchs, who had dared
reshape caste’s vile coil, could not freeze
Yama’s gross tread. Yet, would Death’s sting
be mild, for so doomed a hero?
Dead. King, he saw, today he’d die
at Partha’s hands; his lifeline scarred
mortally by the age-old glare
of brahmin curses, pre-deceased
by eight cherished sons—his sole sling
your trust, brace to spine and marrow.
He’s dead now. And I must untie
the sightless mesh of his bizarre
birth and bloodline—did Bheeshma share
these stories? They sought to appease
him, after a lifetime’s shaming
and defaming: this, you must know
now he is dead. Kunti came, cried,
begged him, once and again, to war
for the Pandavas, as the heir,
as her firstborn. By sun and seas,
by earth he swore, to one sibling –
just one king – his soul he’d bestow
till he’s dead: you. Karna’s reply
never faltered. He and you are
brothers, to Krishna he’d declared,
more brothers, more braided than trees
to earth. Krishna, who’d barter king-
ship and queen for Karna’s arrows,
cheers he is dead. They deify
Krishna—the peacenik; Avatar
of Ruin is how I’d declare
such a blackguard. Karna’s last pleas –
the time to free his wheel, to string
the bow, to rise – he spurned, bellowed,
He should be dead! Partha complied,
and tore that dear neck—a jaguar
slew the lion king in a snare.
Partha, I’ll forgive: a reprise
of his son’s slaughter was his spring;
Karna among those who’d wallowed
as the boy dropped dead, felled in sly
blitz. No, dharma left our durbar
an age ago. King, you’re aware
of the sins, of rights and realms seized,
of women debased. Shadows sing
long, once breaths still and eyes hollow.
He is dead. End the battle cry,
King. Let blood from his jugular
cleanse your heart of anger, repair
your pain. It was his last dream: please
his soul, end the fratricide. Ring
out the war, let the hatred go—
for he is dead. Only the sky
remains untarnished, a vast jar
of sleeping ash. No, you’ll not spare
the few living? You’ll not release
peace from prison? You’ll let loathing
prevail. Yes, words all sound shallow
when he lies dead. Aims and thoughts dry.
Your sole relief is arms that spar—
he'd comprehend. His love, his care
for you, King, never showed a crease
through the years; friendship abiding
beyond virtue, vice, overthrow.
Dead, still young. But he’d justify
his choice, each time, of side and tsar.
At first, I warned him to beware
of you—near-jealous, in unease
at whispers of star-crossed bonding.
Then I learnt how you bade him grow.
He is dead now. But he was nigh
unalive till you met, debarred
from his own brilliance; a wild flare
doused by old moths, those gurus leased
by courts. You saw a rare being,
crowned him—then basked in mirrored glow!
For till he fell dead, tall did fly
the Kuru flag, and from afar
and near came kings, ready to swear
allegiance, over eastern seas
and northern peaks. Pride, belonging—
he brought them home from you. And though
he may be dead, love will belie
mortal blood. Keep your heart ajar,
O King, for blessings unaware.
Now, it is time. You vowed to ease
my loss: so silence my paling
pulse and voice. Light one more arrow,
for the dead. I watched eight sons die,
brothers too, on the abattoir
that’s Kurukshetra. In your care,
I leave our youngest: he still sees
life as a land worth exploring.
For mother’s joys I must forgo—
Karna is dead. My troth I’d tied
to his breath. You aligned our stars
in life, long ago, King. Prepare
to merge our bones this time. The breeze
shall strew our ashes—hand nothing
to new kin. Set our pyre aglow.
KRISHNA
Blueprint for a Victory
It’s war we’re waging. Look,
Yuddhishtira, someone must die,
must kill himself, and willingly, so
we can prevail. Or a galaxy of dead
eyes will be your only legacy
to this land, to this age.
Yuddhishtira, someone must die,
your priest insists. It’ll be amavasya
in a day: Surya and Chandra are about
to rise as one in the sky; Kali will crave
a human sacrifice, from the perfect
warrior on the front. Then
someone, Yuddhishtira, must die
tonight, before Duryodhana slays
a white elephant to gratify the gods
(and collects their choicest boons
for victory). I can hoodwink the sun,
the moon – and most others – but
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and remember, without pain, or wants
unsated. Three warriors alone on our
side can make the cut, their skins blessed
with the ritual signs of sacrifice, all thirty-
two: Arjuna, Prince Aravan, and I.
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
but not – you agree – your brother,
Arjuna, commander of our army, star
archer, and iris of your mother’s
eyes. But you needn’t panic, for I
can take on the role, of that
someone, Yuddhishtira, who must die!
Happily, since my death will bring
you victory, pledge I gave to Draupadi.
No, no, let me, cousin, for what is life
but a garment to wear and discard?
You insist you won’t let me be
someone who must die, Yuddhishtira,
but it isn’t such a big deal. All that
matters in life is duty, and mine is clear:
order in the world, at every cost, even
of justice and integrity—order’s the thing,
see, the recipe for empires, the reason
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
the reason countless others will
also die, the reason you – and not
your cousin Duryodhana – and yours
must win this war, must inherit my
planet: for order and not revenge.
Yuddhishtira? Someone must die,
but you understand why. There’s no time
to waffle or pine: if you won’t let me, Aravan
alone remains—your uncle Shalya would do
but he fights now on the other side.
So what if the lad’s an ally?
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and he didn’t come to Kurukshetra
for a party. Yes, he’s keen on dying
in battle, but a sacrifice will bring him
greater glory—for once, it isn’t a lie. I’ll
convince Aravan and his parents too.
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and Arjuna will have to bid his half-
serpent son goodbye, but he never
knew the boy, and this is a higher
cause than family. Besides, he has
other sons; but Ulupi won’t agree
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
not when that someone to die is
her only son, heir to her throne. Nor,
though, will she deny Aravan his whims.
So we have to ensure this is an end
the boy desires. Not that easy, when
someone must die, Yuddhishtira.
Convince Aravan he’s the chosen
one, marked by destiny, marked through
his very body, proof irrefutable if
proof ever there’d be of his being
kalapalli, the one, the blessed
someone who must die. Yuddhishtira,
we asked and here’s Aravan’s reply.
You were right: he would prefer to die
in battle, but he will comply. On
condition, though, that he be wed –
in word and truly in deed – first.
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
yes, but not a virgin. Aravan
asks to be deflowered tonight,
or all offerings will be in vain.
We asked and asked again, but
no woman agrees to marry
someone, Yuddhishtira, who must die
on his wedding night. No woman
wishes to be widowed quite so soon,
nor gutted alive as sati. But if no such
woman exists, I’ll supply a bride. It is one
night’s tale, not a lifetime affair. If
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
so must another be born, or remade.
There will be a woman by twilight, for
Aravan to wed and bed. You may be young,
but you’ve still heard, I guess, of Mohini?
You can count on her to lie with him,
Yuddhishtira. Someone must die,
must first sigh appeased, pleased. And hence
I shall transform, unsheathe my female form:
reap lush, tender breasts and fragrant hips,
sate him with the velvet of my thighs and lips,
drown him in embrace all night long. For
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and it is no sin to grant him this wish.
If that, thereby, entails a change of sex,
so be it. Why the horrified stare? If I can
morph into boar and fish and man-lion
to save the world, why not a woman?
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and that someone deserves a wife to cry
over his death, if just for half a day. Besides
I’ve been Mohini once before, Enchantress
no deity could ever resist, nor forget. If
the gods didn’t mind, why should men,
Yuddhishtira? Someone must die,
your flesh and blood, it transpires,
to guarantee your conquest. And all you
find awry in this carousal of bloodlust is
that man will love man tonight? Ring
temple bells, garland weapons, and sing
instead, Yuddhishtira: someone shall die.
Until the Lions is forthcoming in late 2015 from HarperCollins India and Arc Publications, UK.
Karthika Naïr is the author of several books, including the invented fable The Honey Hunter, illustrated by Joëlle Jolivet, and the principal scriptwriter of several dance productions, including the multiple-award-winning DESH (2011), choreographer Akram Khan’s dance solo. Until the Lions: Echoes from the Mahabharata, her reimagining of the Mahabharata in multiple voices, won the 2015 Tata Literature Live! Award for fiction, was shortlisted for the 2016 Atta Galatta Prize for Fiction and highly commended in the 2016 Forward Prizes. Akram Khan adapted one chapter of the book into a dance show, also called Until the Lions, winner of the 2016 Tanz Award for Outstanding Production. Another adaptation of the book, this time for opera, has been commissioned by Opéra national du Rhin in France. The dance shows she has scripted and co-scripted have been staged at venues across the world, such as the Palais des Papes (Avignon), Esplanade (Singapore), Sadler’s Wells (London), Théâtre de la Ville and La Villette (Paris) and L.G. Arts Center (Seoul). Naïr’s poetry has been widely published in anthologies and journals including Granta, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Magazine, Poetry International, Indian Literature, The Wolf, The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets and the Forward Book of Poetry 2017. She is a 2012 Sangam House Fellow, a 2013 Toji Foundation Fellow and was awarded a Villa Marguerite Yourcenar Fellowship in 2015. Her latest book is Over and Under Ground in Mumbai & Paris (2018), a travelogue in verse, written with Mumbai-based poet Sampurna Chattarji, and illustrated by Joëlle Jolivet and Roshni Vyam. Also a dance enabler, Naïr’s closest associations have been with Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui and Damien Jalet as executive producer of works like Babel(words), Puz/zle and Jalet's Les Médusées, a site-responsive series of performative evenings at the Louvre Museum, and as co-founder of Cherkaoui's company Eastman.