Character Sketch Series – Mahabharata: Yudhishthira (My Favorite)

Most people, who I know have read Jaya/Mahabharata or watched the mega serial on TV. It’s truly an epic of humongous proportions comprising plots and subplots with myriad array of characters and character arcs, which is still unparalleled in scope and depth.

Most folks have their favorites. I have heard the following roll call when it comes to the most common favorite characters: Krishna, Karna, Arjuna, Bhima, Bhishma, Draupadi, Abhimanyu, and even Duryodhana!

But, never have I heard someone say that Yudhishthira is his or her favorite character. I always used to wonder why. 

I know the reasons for most people to hate him… The gambling episode and especially, losing his wife, Draupadi, after betting away his four brothers!

IMHO (In my humble opinion)

He’s my favorite though. Actually, he’s the first among equals for me because I also love Krishna, Karna (the most tragic character ever created in an epic), Bhishma, and Draupadi.

Yudhishthira’s fighting qualities were nothing to brag about unlike his younger and mightier brothers and his elder brother! He was good at using spears and I guess, that’s about it. Not too masculine, neither wily nor cunning or shrewd. He wasn’t a worldly man either. 

He was, according to me, the man on the middle path. His greatest strength was his honesty. He never lied. Ever. Not even once and that takes courage. More courage than you can even begin to imagine. He had no worries or secrets to himself.

The dice game
Even before the ill-fated and often debated game of dice, Yudhishthira had tried every trick of diplomacy with Duryodhana but in vain. He had even pleaded Duryodhana to handover a village for each Pandava but even that was rejected.

He finally gives in to the decision of playing dice to avert the war. Also, he never thinks that the Kauravas will defeat Pandavas in the game through deceit.

Yaksha Prashna
During their exile, Yudhishthira was the only one, who could answer the Yaksha Prashna among all the Pandavas. After satisfactorily answering the Yaksha’s questions, he brings all of them back to life.

Role in the war

He was always on the side of Dharma. So much so that even when Krishna, Pandavas’ best friend and advisor, told him to lie about Ashwathamma’s death, he declined. Only when an elephant by the name Ashwathamma died, he proclaimed that Ashwathamma died. In fact, he actually mentioned, “Ashwathamma, the elephant died!” but the qualifiers were droned out in the battle noise.

Arjuna had confusions regarding his role as a warrior while fighting his relatives. Bhima was fighting to take revenge and fulfill his vows given to Draupadi. Nakul and Sahadev were following orders from the elder brother. Though Sahadev was the wisest of all the brothers, he was silent. Karna was in the war as he could never leave Duryodhana’s side and valued their friendship more than anything else.

Yudhishthira was the only one fighting on the battlefield for Dharma’s sake. Of course, so was Krishna but he taken a vow of not fighting directly in the war (Though later he bent and broke those rules is a matter for another blog post altogether!).

If ever there was a man, who always stood for ethics no matter what dilemmas he had to face, he was such a man...

The one who stood true to his name, no matter whether the war was physical or metaphysical in nature...

Disclaimer: This is the first of a series of brief character sketches I’ll be writing on my favorite characters of the Mahabharata. Yudhishthira’s character sketch written here is by no means a conclusion.

I do expect comments from serious readers, especially on the gambling episode. You’re more than welcome. Let’s engage in a healthy debate.

Change

I have seen:

People change.

Times change. 

Wounds change. 

The kind of time and the kindness of wound(s)...
Change the change.

What dreams may come…

This is the stuff dreams should be made of.

He sees her from an old rickety bus window. This is in front of some monument’s garden most likely in Delhi! She looks every bit of an activist, she always wanted to be.

He is shell shocked. This thought passes through his mind, “She had left me without a trace. Like a rogue CIA agent, who defected or vanished into thin air in those Hollywood spy movies!”

He gets down from the slow-moving bus in slow motion.

She sees him too and her face radiates a joy he’s never seen on a woman’s face. Never read in a book. Never seen in any movie. That made his day.

His eyes well up and he cries. She runs to him, holds his hand, and they hail a taxi.

She still speaks in that Rekha Bharadwajesque voice of hers. Her Bengali devi face still adorns a big bindi.

Everywhere they go, for some reason, a Kishore Kumar song is being played. Like akashvani, like background music in the movies… They try to figure out the source of that music but in vain!

With her mouthful of a golgappa, she asks him, “What do you want?”

He replies, “Still the same. Spend my life with you. And this time, don’t you dare leave me and go.” He adds hurriedly, “Hey, how’s Jahnavi? I bet she won’t recognize me… I still remember her saying over the phone, ‘Abhi, come fast to the temple! Okay?’”

She answers excitedly, “She’s almost seventeen!”

He’s stunned, “Wow, so much time has passed!?”

She laughs. He laughs too. But, now, there’s an echo…

My room is dark. There’s a bit of twilight seeping in. The Fitbit shows time to be 6:15 am. I think I know the source of this dream; I watched The Words on &Prive HD yesternight. And, am glad I did.

I wake up and write this.

It’s been a long time, right?

Cheesy love

If only wishes were horses, I would’ve ridden the whitest of clouds to rain on you. With my heart as my only steed. 

If only I could make love to you without using words as my crutches. If only you knew that online is my favorite word when I see it below your name.

Well, come inside.

For inside me, is a place that I call home. A place that’s neither heaven nor Earth. This home has a morning rainbow outside our bedroom window. From our porch, you can watch golden clouds that rain cheesy love sandwiches for breakfast. Out near the horizon, on vast meadows, we sow our love to bear fruits in summertime.

So, please don’t sleep. Not yet, my darling. For when you sleep, my words feel drowsy too. 

Then, they want to be:

• The stars you see in your dreams
• That sound you utter… When you wake up… They want to moisten your thin lips.
• The lyrics of your favorite songs when you sing
• And, the silences in between.

Let it flow

Even if I am in a state where I am schizophrenic, I'll be loving you. 

So let it flow. Let love flow.

Today and tonight. 
Midnight and mid-day. 

Let it flow with each pulse. 
From my palm to your wrist. 

From me to you, who I've been in love with 
All this while 
While you've been elsewhere 
In your own heaven and hell 
And Earth in between.

When our love's lake was frozen still
I bloomed as your lotus 
With my leaves detached from your water.

May I say that I miss you? At times?

Imprisoners of time that we are... 
Few more moments with you won't hurt
Neither you, neither me, nor my love.

Can love be so liberating yet tied up? Together?

Will it always be you in me and me in you? 
Afar?

Please hold my hand as I close my eyes 
And take my last breath
My last sip
My last dip in the holy river.

Don't worry, 'cause I'll die soon in your arms. 
My body will be
Carried away on this hammock of our dreams.

Not a day goes by 
Without you haunting my mindspace and heartscape
Without you knocking me down. 

Not a night goes by 
That I don't feel your moist skin,
Your warm touch,
Your deep sighs. 

Not a morning comes by 
Without me wishing...
For your love,
Mysterious like you but eccentric like me.

Maana ke hum yaar nahin...

Every once in a while, a song hums into your life and takes your breath away. Previously, I had fallen in love with Baawra mann and Dil toh bachha hain jii...

Those songs were and are a significant part of my life. Baawra mann, in fact, has become an anthem of sorts.

Last week, I saw this hidden gem of an unknown movie titled Meri Pyaari Bindu. Very filmy, very narrative, and yet, very poignant. 

The movie slowly but surely grew into my psyche and established a personal space there; mind you, it's not a great film by any standards but it had something that involved me. 

Maybe the story was very relatable and, in parts, it was very predictable too. In spite of a very badly characterized female lead, the movie held its own.

The song. Well, the song. Is it just that? 

It made me want to walk in the rain with her. Holding her hands and stealing glances every once in a while... 

This song is an ode... 

To all that was possible. 
To a mysterious smile, which only the observing heart catches. 
To paths that were left incomplete. 
To love unrequited. 
To the field beyond right and wrong. 
To the crevices and cracks where it lies wounded and curled up. Like a cat.
To the only kind of love that lasts. Outlasts life itself. 
To the yearning and pain that takes the taste out of tea, the bite out of coffee, and the fragrance out of a flower.

To pasts real and imagined... And to that surreal boundary where they meet.:-)

Peanut and Pixie

We are not all beautiful.
We are not all ugly.
Each one of us simply is.

Lao Tzu had pondered over this long ago as did I on that fateful night. If everyone is beautiful, what is ugliness?

Well, Cookie had just given birth to Peanut and Pixie. 

Osho, the noble, proud, and caring father of the two, was watching me handle the two just-born kittens with shivering hands.

Nihilism and all other isms took a back seat in my train of thoughts. That moment in time, when I held them. Close to my chest and deep in my palms. Like an old, long lost lover, who you still hold on to for your dear life. 

Their closed eyes, shivering bodies, small and soft nails, and swaying gait made way for a whole set of new meanings that life offers. 

I realized that miracles aren't made; they're born every day. 

New life when it kicks in in any form is something that you can't explain with words. But a certain word made sense to me that day: Spectacular.

The insignificance of all our lives on this planet and elsewhere in the Universe didn't matter. All that mattered are the two new lives, who entered our lives that night. 

Since that day, the songs have stopped, the music is milder; all we want to hear are kitten noises even in our much deprived sleep.

Stillness

The hill looks like any other hill. But just like today, it has beckoned millions to it since time immemorial. Mahatmas and siddhars and maharishis and seekers and sinners et al.

The Ramana Parayana that starts after the abhishekam and aarti breaks the enforced silence and self-imposed silences in the samadhi hall. Every once in a while, you could hear an air horn from a rickety, rusty bus. Or a peacock crows. The breeze is still but brings a waft of camphor and sambrani in distinct waves.

Ramana's piercing eyes stare at you from all four walls and like many others felt, you still feel his presence here long after his samadhi on April 14, 1950. 

Behind the samadhi and the ashram, the hill looms as a great answer to all seekers of truth. Covered by low-hanging, rain-carrying clouds, its peak is invisible. Night dawns; lakhs of devotees circumambulate Arunachala during the full moonlit night...

Close your eyes and just sit. Chumma iri. Be as you are.

The aroma of mysticism and esoteric faith combine to give you a headiness at Virupaksha cave. If you're entitled, you may hear Aum vibrating all around you.

Just outside the ashram, bohemians, backpackers, and sadhus share tales and tea and lives. While cattle, dogs, monkeys, and peacocks are fed by few kind folks like Devraj, I sit and try to be still. 

Still, I am not still.

This was actually written in October 2016 but posted only now. :-)

Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye

"Are you her chosen one?" he asked himself. 

Long into the night, as he tossed and turned through yet another sleepless night, he pondered upon his eternal question, "Are you a victim of circumstances? Of life? Of ras leela?" 

"Are you blessed by just arriving at the right time at the right place? 
Or, are you cursed by arriving at the wrong time at the wrong place?"

Silence. 

Just then his refrigerator's compressor kicked on.

"Do you deserve to be where you are now? 
Do you deserve the role(s) you play? 
Is your role sustained due to fear? 
Are you irreplaceable? 
Are you just her 'also love'? 
Or, are you her passion for life?"

More silence.

"Are you just another throw of dice in this random universe? Are you the method in this madness? Are you the order in this chaos?" he asked himself. 

Deafening silence.

Finding no answers, he burned inside. Nothing could quench his thirst. Nothing could deliver him peace. Nothing could deliver him what he seeks though he seeks what others have sought before and attained.

If he wasn't the one, shouldn't he leave? Make way for love to bloom as it should? Is he an obstruction that only he can destroy?

Shouldn't he make way for two souls who yearn for each other?
Why is he just a witness in his own love story? 
Why did he expect her to say: 
"No matter what, I would've always chosen you."?

He switches on the TV and surfs. There is nothing better to do. His mind hums and drums. He listens to old classics on the Mastii channel; one of his favorite songs is on: "Chalo ek baar phir se... Ajnabi ban jaye hum dono..."

He watches and listens to few more songs. Songs that bring about associations of the past.  

Meanwhile, over her wallpapered doe-eyes on his cracked Home and Lock screen, his Asus zenphone screams, "It's 1 am. Go to sleep. Try at least. There's work tomorrow." He craves for a vada pav. He smiles and brushes away that impossible wish.

Loud silence. 

A train's horn breaks it, as he lies down again. He looks at the pillow she left behind, as he breaks into a cold sweat. He sniffs her pillow and that kurti she had left upon her stuffed toy dog. They still smell of her perspiration's odor mixed with her deodorant's scent. Always a heady mix for him. A dog barks in the orchard adjacent to his building's compound. Few more join in the howling party. 

He had barely slept a wink when he heard a neighbor washing clothes in the balcony diagonally above his flat... Now, a familiar and punctual sight and sound. It was time to get up. Rub those red eyes. Stretch that neck and move those heavy shoulders. To go to work. His only dreaded constant.

Going through the motions without her by his side, he laughed on the outside. All his wisdom and his knowledge deserted him like morning birds that flew away. 

He wanted to be with her. By her side always. As her one. But he was alone. Again. 

And this time, for the first time ever... He felt lonely, too.

After a long time, a mood piece. I love writing mood pieces. :-)

Lovecycle

She's every man's dream come true.
But only for a few.
Because the rest lost out on her essence.

Her valleys and peaks
Want me to be a cartographer again.

And I shall mark the equator and the poles                       
With my ship sailing through a thousand and eight storms
On her...                  

Passion is something she's never known;
It's a history that she's yet to witness.
For what she's seen is not even a fraction
Of what's awakened inside me.

I am becoming a better man
And all because a painter painted 
Love 
On my heart.

My eyes burst
Because they couldn't take it all.

And then I closed my eyes 
To see her 
Staring back through her paintings.

Her sighing heart waxed and waned 
To measure her love 
But our frequency was higher. 

My heart stopped.
Her heart beat.

And death was certain.                       
For it's who could separate their bodies...
But couldn't tear apart their souls. 
So it gave up at Shiva's feet.                       
 
We found us there.
Our lovecycle completed.

A dreamer's dream fantasy

I have fever. 
An intense, cold fever. 

I dream of her nipple, 
Her extended goosebump,
On her satiny skin.
From her areola, my warm breath sends out a ripple.

The breeze howls through the sliding window.
While I slide her camisole off her tattooed back.

But is it me she dreams of? Is it her I make love to?
Or, are our bodies remembering them?
One by one? 

Her moan escapes through the half-unhinged noise of the bathroom window.
And the exhaust fan shoos away our body heat. 

As our otherworldly cats try to meow in our cold balcony... 
We climax as one.
Sitting up together without stopping our perspiration,
We script each other's fantasy. 

Stillness quivering, our fever slowly subsides.
 
Is this love our fever, pain, or something like it? Or, only a bit more...
Is this my very bedroom, my very life?
My dream?
My troubled awakening? 

Is this all a part of another dream from which someone else hasn’t woken up? Yet?

Not just another Saturday night

Us:
Part icebergs and dormant volcanoes,
Sharing anecdotes from past love stories
While 
Listening to love songs sung by ex-lovers,
Ex-flames, and ex-muses.

This much remains:
Smudged kajal; squinted gazes.

And a bit of self-imposed, incensed silences.

Us:
Islands unto ourselves scattered,
Across rivers of time and space,

Feeling certain songs and ghazals, 
As bridges,
Which trigger that immediate cause.

And in the aftermath of 
Our collision and eruption,

This much remains: 
Bliss, peace.

Aur thode khushi ke aansoon.

Hide and seek

Happiness is like my cat, Cookie. Every now and then, she plays hide and seek.

We're

Romantic. Chaotic. 
Geometric. Surrealistic.

Still. Motion.
Natural. Abstract.

Landscape. Portrait.
Existential. Modern.

Narrative. Symbolic.
Religious. Violent.

We're mere paintings 
Waiting to dry and be consumed.

You

You're what I can't see. 
You're spinning. 

You're sung, recited, and chanted.
You're sculpted but in vain.

You're darkness and light. 
You're also that flicker where they meet.

You're neither matter nor energy.
You're a ~vibration~.

You're a dichotomy.
You're everything in between.

You're fermions and bosons.
You're in three degrees of freedom, yet free.

You're neither here nor there.
You're becoming THAT.

You're in every lie I've heard.
You're in every truth spoken.

PoeTRY

That forgotten art. 
That love letter to yourself. 
That ode to a bird. 
That note to a stranger, who once upon a time wasn't.

Those scribbles on paper napkins hurriedly written with a Reynolds ball pen.
Those remains of your innermost pieces churned, squashed, and ground to finer pieces.
Those four verses of Haiku and two lines for a sonnet. They, who yearn to come alive but lie unread between the last two pages of a gifted, unopened book.

That purpose seeking moksha.
That which remains unruined among ruins.
That which fire can't burn.
That which words can touch.

Go. Pick another word.
And, come with me.

The Art of Getting By

There are few things in life that make you feel good about life itself. Without any memories or associations of the past. Just feel good about being in the moment. These moments may not be grand like your biggest wish being fulfilled or you backpacking across the world or your works getting published...But things such as watching a creation, a piece of art coming into being... 

I have read what people, who were privileged enough to sit through the Beatles jamming sessions, said. They said that it's far better than being at their concerts... Now, I agree with them.

There is something about amalgamation of thoughts... Erasing ideas off a canvas... Eureka moments... Evaluating your work with a tilt of the head... and painting a few strokes more... 

There are very few things that match the grandeur of watching a master painting with measured strokes and curves unhurriedly. 

And every once in a while, while watching The Art of Getting By, that moment hits you: You watch the art devouring its artist hurriedly.

words and pictures

"Words and pictures. We live among their shadows almost always.

Why do we need art? Who do we write and paint? Communicate? When did mere paint strokes, cave paintings, and grunts take the form of hieroglyphics, various languages, and written words?

After all, isn't the written word also a picture? Isn't it a painting, in fact, that has a specific meaning in a specific language? 

What is typography then? A space where the two meet to form a new type of art...

If and when and where both words and pictures fail, we need music...Do they fail? Have they ever?"

Such thoughts have been circling my mind ever since I watched words and pictures starring Clive Owen and Juliette Binoche. Written, directed, and produced by Fred Schepisi and Gerald DiPego...

A movie that reminded often about Dead Poet's Society (even without the not-so-subtle references to it in this movie). It's a very moving film that deserves to be watched again and again... And yes, it helps when you have a writer and a painter watching the film together.

Maybe after five years when we rewatch it, we may see it differently because our definition of what art is changes every few years... Or, does it?

We'll wait and watch.

You still don't know?

It was late evening. Twilight was bidding goodbye to its light. 

They were sipping black tea. Few cookies were left on the plate. Cookie, their cat, was eyeing them. 

They were talking about the first month of marriage that just flew by. How life had been a series of events and decisions that led them to themselves. About their past lessons and future hopes... 

It started to drizzle a bit. The coconut palms were swaying in the breeze. 

She shuffled into the kitchen and returned with a large bowl of pasta. She placed it beside him and proceeded to fill his bowl. Her wet hair, her scented body mingled with the delicate aroma of hot cheese, white sauce, and mushroom intoxicated him. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He inhaled again sharply. "It's awesome! If there is any heaven on earth, it's here, it's here, it's here!"

“Thank you. You are very kind,” she exclaimed. They laughed after tossing out all worries and cares in the wind that caressed her tresses.

There was a bit of love in the air. Like a feather, it settled on her nose. He touched her there. 

She turned red and blushed, "“Hmmm! It took you a while.”

He answered while devouring pasta, "I am sorry." He touched his heart and looked inside his inner chamber. "I wanted to know what is love. All over again. Freshly devour it just like this pasta!" 

She looked straight into his puppy dog eyes, "You still don't know?"
 
They ran into the dark night as fast as they could to get away from each other's eyes. From one dream into another.

Boon and curse

A poet's boon becomes a writer's curse. They pay a price for each other's deeds. Sometimes, peace of mind is the price you pay for brutal honesty.

Is it worth it? 

My answer is yes.