My Days in Mahabharat

Duryodhan read my draft

Hastinapur

The fountain water sprays a few drops on my new parchment with the swerve of gentle wind pestering its mundane ritual to flow in a humdrum. I dip my quill in the ink pot which was not ink basically, but a unique diluted solution of a few burnt tars, carbon; coal and some calla lilies whose pigment stays for a longer period of time in the history. It is the perfect day to start journaling— my day in Mahabharata. Not quite perfect actually.

"Mamashree! He is sometimes just. . ." I don't give a flying rat's ass because the hoarse voice belongs to the haughty Prince Duryodhan.

He barges in the lawns of Hastinapur as if every leaf, flower, root, tree, branch, stem, bud or for that matter every single particle was his slave. He looks at me from his corneas for not acknowledging his presence. Pulling out his dagger from the waist he throws it towards a nearby tree of the mango orchard.

I stifle from my place a bit as the sudden dart of his dagger disturbs a peaceful piegon family on the branch of that tree, who are flapping their wings vigorously.

There's no point in arguing with him.

I dip the peacock feather quill in the pot tapping it on the rim slightly to drop off the excess and place my left hand on the corner of the parchment to cease its movement due to the winds. My elbow was resting on the marbled space on the lower basin of the fountain and it was cool with the effect of water as I sit with my legs folded on the grassy ground. Ah what a place!

"Don't you feel the need to address the crown prince of Hastinapur?" Duryodhan's voice is layered with commands and pride.

He is sitting on the swing with his right arm claiming the head rest of the seat and his right leg is crossed over his left one with involuted armlets and bracelets. His tawny brown curly hair flow with winds which made his conceit higher. Keeping aside the abysmal deeds, he is a warrior. A mace fighter with strong, sturdy and rigid built of a wrestler. His ornaments are significant in designs of snakes. A pair of serpent like studs in his ears and an unevenly asymmetrical snake shaped necklace from his back to around his chest. An orange colored angavastra with golden border and gold thread embroidery of sinuous pattern is thrown over his left shoulder paired with a cobalt blue dhoti. Face is encompassed with pride, arrogance, ego and hubris, lips are curved in a shady smirk while his hooded eyes are devious in perspective.

I sigh out. The only gesticulation my body allow is eye-roll at that moment.

"Prince Duryodhan," I stress to make the world and especially him realize that he isn't venerated as the crown prince or heir to the throne of Hastinapur yet. "I was actually so occupied with my leisure work that I didn't notice your presence" I fake the failte with genuine rebuff.

"Work? What sort of work keeps you engaged accept ambling, giving unnecessary advices and carrying these books and parchments from one part of the palace to another?" He sugars the bitter words. I laugh over my shoulder touching the sharpened tip of the quill which had bent due to sogginess of the pigments.

"Well indeed I saunter, raise my opinions for the inappropriate protocols and I love writing" I snap back. "But I still don't get enough time to conspire shady manoeuvres, schemes, plans and subterfuge to achieve" I look straight into his eyes this time.

Now what should I explain to him? These parchments. . . If possible to take them along, I'll have something to cherish of this sojourn. . . Anyways.

Duryodhana, the spoilt brat of King Dhritrashtra and Queen Gandhari is fuming in anger and in his own astonishing lack of discernment.

He shifts and shuffles. But then, again sits on the swing with a thud tapping his temple with his fist periodically. Probably he just had a fight with his dearest Mamashree and he can't go back to him, right now for the stance. He glares at me and my parchment, squinting his eyes to observe keenly as if reassuring what he just saw.

"Queen Gandhari?. . . What are you writing?" he questions with ever so expected dubiety. He read the bold and highlighted title which crowned my parchment. Honestly I had no issue in him questioning, any sane human would have interrogated seeing their mother's name on a paper owned by some months year old guest and not so wanted quasi family member. "Duryo. . . Prince Duryodhan! I'll feel immensely honored if you'll read this. But I'm afraid its incomplete right now and I'll lend this parchment to you myself once it's completed" I reply asserting my authority at my writing and his curiosity and rummaging through the words for analysis.

"I will wait here only the. Complete fast" He shouts pointing towards the ground sitting attentively by now. "Excuse me? Don't shout! You should be thankful that I've decided to atleast lend this to you for read." He springs up from the swing and snatched the parchment.

"Duryo- Princ—Oh! Forget it!"

I am vexed at him. "Duryodhan I told you that I'll give this to you. It's not even dried yet. Are you deaf?" I cross my arms on my chest in exasperation goaded by his ignorance.

He is reading the parchment as if it was full of shortcuts to ascend the throne of Hastinapur!

Quietly he rolls the parchment and places it in my hand after a few minutes. He goes towards the mango tree darted by his dagger. Without any expression for my deduction, he pulls out his dagger, keeps it in the sheath around his waist and exits the lawn in long strides.

Is he brainless or what?

In the twilight, the view that my sight catches was off center, off beat and noteworthy or maybe unprecedented.

The woman with blindfolds is glowing with a delightful and euphoric ecstasy. She is sitting on the same swing in the lawn relishing those windy sways like a little girl. Behind her, was Duryodhan. Her first born son, who's face is bright in glory as he oscillates the swing ropes for his mother.

Maybe this is transient or fugitive but for their hearts it's perpetual.

And tonight night, after collecting and arranging all those parchments in my journal I decide to keep this one incomplete.

Queen Gandhari

Fair complexion, black wavy hair, curvy, honeyeyed, lively Princess of Gandhar. Aspirations and dreams - light, illumination, brightness. Blessed with a boon from Mahadev to beget hundred sons. When her marriage alliance was fixed with Prince Dhritrashtra, the eldest of kuru princes in Hastinapur like every maiden she started weaving her silk of happily married life. Blind! Bornblind! Her to be husband is a bornblind. She took the most terrifying decision which would stir her soul. She covered her almond shaped, honey colored eyes with crimson blindfold! Was that a protest? A penance? A mode of salvation? A dimension of righteousness? An aspect of love for her Aarya Dhritrashtra? She was pregnant. Pregnant from last twelve months. Twelve? She gave birth to a piece of flesh, cumulated and compounded. She spent her days and night in that dark cave eagerly waiting to hold her dear sons in her arms. Vedvyas had asked her to stay keenly observant of every sound and improvement the pitchers may go through. That day a pitcher broke with the sounds of braying, howling, lightening, thundering but she heard just a cry. The first cry of her first born son Duryo