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Yudhishthir tries not to think about his mother. It is the one problem he grapples with. The rest comes easy. He knows it is hard for the rest to understand how he can be so accepting of their plight. He knows that only Draupadi understands that to him, this isn’t a plight. And he accepts that she will forever scorn him for it. When Nakul and Sahadev cry in their sleep for Arjun, he strokes their heads softly and tries to absorb their grief. He stays very quiet when Bhim and Draupadi shudder in violent sobs, ashamed not to match their virulent emotions.
He is happy in the forest. Ruling over leaves and deer is simple, and righteous, and purity is as accessible as the clear-flowing stream. In a daily court consisting only of those wise men and scholarly Brahmins whose affection for him overcame their love of civilisation, he has distilled the essence of all that was relevant of the grandiose circus that surrounded him in Indraprastha. It is easy to be content here, ordered by the dictates of vows and conscience and practicality alike, to live in the manner he has yearned secretly for, since he first tasted it as a youth. Then they were escaping from a burning house, young lads on an adventure, disguised and rollicking. Panchali was only a distant prize to be won, not the living, seething, aching flame in front of him now. And then, then the reins were with his mother.
His mother who lives in the hut of a suta, tucked away in a corner of the great Kuru court, the dependant of a dependant. Who ran her hands over his forehead when he stooped in farewell before her, and whispered ‘have fun’, so low that no one else heard. Who he remembers, with the unreal light of an early memory, laughing and at ease, swinging him up on her shoulders in bygone forests, smiling up at his father in affectionate peace. His mother, who, he suspects, will never say how much she wishes she could have stayed serene in exile.
He is, he knows with the dull ache of betrayal, his mother’s son. So he will stay resolute and uncomplaining, and never reveal how easy it would be for him to enjoy himself here.
It helps if he doesn’t think of her.
***
Bhim watches. He knots his great, callused fingers behind his back, and squares his shoulders, and watches. Watches out for the unwary branch that he will never allow in front of the contemplative, unseeing eyes of Yudhishthir. Watches the way Nakul bites his lips when the rains turn the dusty path to mud. Watches over the valiant, struggling silence of Sahadev’s feet. Bhim watches all of it, all of them, carefully and unceasingly.
Because she watches him. Not in the manner that he does, not openly and unblinkingly and steadfastly. He knows no other way to watch, because when he does something, he can do only that one thing, with all his heart. She doesn’t expect him to change, but she watches him differently. Amidst all her quicksilver action and efficient puppeteering, she takes time to keep an eye on him. The one puppet who lies limply in her hands, strings orchestrated to her very breath.
Together, they watch for Arjun.
***
Nakul weeps at night. In the day he has to be strong for Yudhishtir’s sake, and because in the face of Bhim’s simmering anguish, his own scant tears seem meagre and inadequate. In the day, he can’t look Draupadi quite in the eye, and she, aware of this, is extra conciliatory, always hovering around Sahadev, never directly throwing her services to him in his face. In the day he has to turn his pretty shining blade into a substitute for the Gandeev, somehow finding ways to get food into Draupadi’s fanatically ambitious kitchen. He was always the silent swordsman, content to cleave his straight path in meek ignorance of the whirlwinds that his elder brothers surrounded him with. But Bhim, no matter how great a hunter he is, devours everything with the rapaciousness of the fires he is stoking inside, and Arjun is… not present.
So in the day Nakul drags Sahadev off into a direction where the deer have hopefully not been frightened off by the brahmanical retinue’s incessant drone. After they have finished cutting up the carcass, they lay it at Draupadi’s feet. He shivers at the tenderness with which she cooks the bloody meat. In the evening though, he watches as she rubs a little fat on the soles of Sahadev’s feet.
And at night, when Yudhishthir is safely asleep, and Bhim lying stoic on the threshold, he holds onto Sahadev and cries for his mother, and his brother, and the way things used to be. Draupadi never interrupts them, and when Sahadev’s warm hands stroke his back, for a little while, he forgets about her. Smelling the familiar breath of his twin, entwined with his other half, he can finally think about Arjun, and burrow closer into Sahadev. When they shudder in unison, the night shrouds their weeping release. Grief spends itself by morning.
***
Sahadev has never felt so close to Draupadi. One year of living with her in courtly bliss, of being father to her child, of seeing her stripped and shaken with honest bewilderment in her eyes… none of it has touched him as deeply as she does now. He winced when his mother asked Draupadi to take good care of him, because he didn’t want special treatment as the favourite, the youngest, the petted one. But now he knows, his mother was smarter.
Since the first night after Arjun left, when Nakul finally broke down in his arms, Draupadi has never said one word to him about it. She saves the tenderest portion of meat for him, she gives him the softest grass mat, and makes sure that it lies in the least draughty corner of the hut. She knows with that uncanny omniscience of hers, just exactly when he is sick to death of the endless abstract debates that echo around him, in nasal, erudite voices that are oblivious to the efforts it takes to keep their bellies full. She tells him very matter-of-factly that she needs lotus stems to cook for dinner, and sends him off for a swim. She gives him extra fruit on behalf of Nakul that his twin refuses to accept and he ends up silently swallowing, as he does everything else.
At night, for the first time in his life, he keeps a secret from Nakul. When he wraps himself around the shaking body inside the circle of his arms, when he tastes the salt of someone else’s tears on his lips, he stays quiet, stays warm. And in the stillness outside his protective embrace, he watches her, back towards them. When Nakul cries, he stays strong and suppliant, and he sees her spine stiffen correspondingly. Later, after the tempest is past, she turns her face, and watches over them, not once intruding by a touch or gesture, or emotion.
He can barely see her eyes in the dark, and the soft curve of her breasts is the only indication that she is a woman. Her head tilts, and he understands. She is a twin too. Bowing his head in apology and acknowledgement of Drish, he holds Nakul closer. Over his brother’s shoulder, he can see her curling up inside herself.
***
Arjun stands on top of the mountain.
He forgets to breathe, sometimes.
As he chants, he delves ever more deeply into the undefined eye he has set his sight on.
Like an arrow set free at last, he speeds away from memories of brothers nestled in a quiver; the echoing wail of Draupadi, like a taut, snapping bowstring, spurring him on.
In utter stillness, he flies in righteous pursuit.
The thinner he gets, the less distracted he is by the absence of Krishna.
When he remembers to breathe, the mountain air intoxicates him.