TALE BEHIND THE TALE

Dhritarashtra — A short story from Mahabharata

I ran my fingers over the blade. Sharp. I liked how my knife felt in my hand. Short, yet deadly.

“Didn’t sleep yet?” I cocked my head towards the voice. My mother. I smiled.

“Not yet, mother. I was just feeling up my knives.”

“Dhritarashtra”, she sighed, her voiced laced with disapproval,“How many times have I told you not to mess with the knives?” When you are by yourself, she didn’t add. Anger coursed through my body.

“Because I can’t see?”, I raged. “Oh, Dhritarashtra!”, she despaired, “You know that’s not it. I’m just concerned about you.”

All my anger whooshed out of my body. Concern. How I despised that word. Everyone was concerned about me. Everyone pitied me. Why couldn’t they just treat me like a normal boy? Because you are not, a voice taunted in my head. I could feel my anger returning. I am, I retorted to that voice. Pandu is, it sneered back. Bitterness reared it’s head but I tamped it down. Pandu was not a threat. He wasn’t even as strong as me. Besides, I was the eldest, which meant that I get to be the successor of the dynasty. Also, he just follows me around, praising me. I smiled. Pandu was just my brother, who showed me the vibrant colours of the world — colours that I can’t see.

“Dhritarashtra”, my mother sighed, “Are you even listening to me? Knives are dangerous!” I plastered a smirk on my face. “I’m a dangerous man”, I gloated. My mother laughed. “You are a boy”, my mother corrected. I frowned. “I’m not that young”, I said indignantly. “You sound just like her”, my mother sighed wistfully. “Like who?”, I inquired. “My sister, Amba”, she said, sounding incredibly sad. “You mean the one who killed herself?”, I asked. “Don’t speak disrespectfully of your elders!”, she said sharply. I didn’t feel like I said anything wrong, especially since I pointed out the obvious, so I remained silent.

My mother took a deep breath. “Come here”, she said in a much calmer tone. I crawled forward and curled up on her lap. She took the knife from my hand and placed it in it’s holder beside my bed. “Amba was stubborn and short-tempered like a certain person I know”, she said poking my stomach. I didn’t appreciate the comparison but I didn’t state otherwise. “She couldn’t live the life she wanted. But you”, she said with sudden conviction, “should not let your hindrance ruin your life. Become the king your name stands for. Have no regrets.”

I was pleasantly surprised. Mother didn’t speak like this often. “I will”, I affirmed solemnly. “I will train and be just like my knives.”

“Your knives?”, she asked confused.

“Knives don’t have eyes, and yet they’re dangerous. Powerful. That’s how I’ll be.”

My mother burst out laughing. I didn’t share her amusement. I meant every single word I said. Darkness might have consumed my vision, but I won’t let it consume my life. I’ll ensure that concern and pity would be the last thing people feel for me.

“Alright, enough talk”, my mother instructed, interrupting my thoughts, “Sleep now.” I obliged and closed my eyes. Soon Hastinapur will be mine.