“Do you want to listen to a tragedy?” asked the stranger.
Vaisampiya, a chronicler, had been in Dvarka for the last 65 days and he had never met someone like the stranger until now. He thought his night would be an ordinary one. He would come to the tavern. Drink his madira. Listen to the tales of the seamen, the farmers and the drunkards. And go back to his inn and call it a night.
But as he had received his madira and he was about to sip it, the stranger arrived. He had a cowl over him and his face was in the shadows. He had a voice as deep and dark as possible. And his nose popped out from the shade, showing the scars that it carried.
“Listening to tales is my hobby.”
“And churning them out with morals is your occupation.” The stranger added.
Oh well, Vaisampiya was a proud man. He liked his choice of career. He would travel the world. Listen to stories and tell it to others orally. He knew about everyone and everything. Except for Dvarka. That was an island nation which was shrouded in mystery; a nation that built its reputations of being invincible and indestructible by having the best army in the world. To pass through customs was tough, but bribing his way in was his knack. He did so, and he reached here, welcomed by the almighty beauty of the brusque lands, the tall volcanoes and the crystal palaces. This was the island where the god Krishna resided, though he had not been seen for the last five years.
Wonder why, he thought. And when he asked, he got answers plenty. None that would satiate him though.
“Indeed. So what tragedy is this?”
“I believe you seek why the former king of Dvarka disappeared five years earlier?” The stranger asked.
“And you might know?” Vaisampiya added, leaning forward on his chair as the hum of the trumpets blared in the background, the taps of the dance were heard. “Tell me, is it because he fought an Asur and went into Pataal, or is it because he was turned invisible by a Rakshas’s Maya? What is it? I have heard so many variations, I have grown tired of it.”
“Then perhaps you might want to know one more.”
Vaisampiya watched the stranger for a moment, contemplating whether to listen further. But every man who comes with a story, is a man who is selfish. He wants to be heard. But most of all, he wants something in return.
“What do you seek if I hear you out?”
“Information that you might possess.”
“I don’t possess anything.”
“Your reputation is of a traveller and a learner, a scholar and a gentry. You have travelled around Dvarka more than the ones who have lived here for years. You must have seen something that matters to me.”
“And what is that?”
“You’ll know. So should I begin?”
“By all means.”
The stranger leaned back. His face popping out of the shade of the cowl. His skin parched and breaking, his lips scorched and torn. An ugly man hidden in a cowl. That answered why he wanted to hide himself. Or perhaps, he didn’t want to be known. The mystery of the stranger eluded him, and Vaisampiya knew he wouldn’t be given an accurate answer if he asked. Because if the man wanted to reveal his identity, he would have introduced himself.
“Do you know the greatest war that was ever fought?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?” The stranger asked.
“Happened far from me, but I heard it all right. It was at the Kurukshetra. The Pandavas and the Kauravas fought a war where they both lost, even though one got victory,” Vaisampiya said. He was at a small village when it happened, close to Kamboj. He was training to be a sage, which went horribly wrong when it was discovered that he’s a Shudra. Oh, that led his entire dream to become a sage go down the drain and he ended up choosing something else he loved other than devoting himself to Mahadev – devoting himself to a path that Mahadev chooses not to destroy: humans.
“It was called the The Great War.”
“Indeed. And our great lord, former King Krishna was part of it. A charioteer to the famed Arjun. It was him who made sure the Pandavas won.”
“But I know this story. How is this a tragedy?”
Vaisampiya paused. “Also, why do you say Lord Krishna, the former king? Why did he give up his throne?”
“His stead is being ruled by his favourite son, Pradhyumna.”
Vaisampiya had heard of the young, feverishly good- looking boy. His eyes were of sapphire stones and his skin was opposite to Krishna’s, a mix of golden and bronze. He had also heard that Pradhyumna legalised madira, gambling, prostitution. He was a progressive king who believed there were no vices, just human follies that should be embraced rather than be curbed.
“I know. But why?”
“Patience. One thing, at a time.” The stranger chuckled under his breath. “Do you know what happened after the triumph of that war?”
“Happily ever after?”
“Unfortunately, no. There was a meeting with Lord Krishna. He met a woman, of the opposing side. Her name was Gandhari.”
“The mother to Duryodhan?”
“Yes.” The stranger nodded. “And she had cursed Lord Krishna for she believed that Lord Krishna could have prevented the war from happening. The curse was simple. His men would die the same way her sons were butchered.”
Excerpted with permission from Krishna: Maha Vishnu Avatar, Kevin Missal, Simon and Schuster India.
