Scruples or Satisfaction
For Prianthi // demonkidpliz for her birthday
Apology: I’m so sorry, dear, I couldn’t write a new one, because I had exams, and, probably you’re gonna get this on the day of the dreaded tax exam. But, I hope, I don’t sound profane, or uncourteous. I love you, and, A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
***
Based on Hoot’s Clockwork
***
Scruples or Satisfaction
The palace walls of Hastinapur had never been quieter, and this particular quietude was not one of tranquility. After all, there had been a carnage that had soaked the landmasses of the four corners of Bharat in blood. The battlefield of Kurukshetra had been stained in gore forever, so much, that its sands would bear the relics of the Dharmayuddha for an eternity in its crimson. Bloodlines had been wiped out without a trace. Countless sacrifices had been made on the altar of mankind, to restore Dharma, as had been interpreted. Such a war, that had drained, the last trace of blood out of a land that had fostered those who had forsaken their lives for a single cause.
Justice.
Hastinapur of the Kauravas, was now Hastinapur of the Pandavas. It cost them a Game of Dice, the humiliation of the Fireborn Panchala Princess, thirteen years of exile, and, the slaughter of five score cousins, to cause this transformation. They said, they had avenged their wife’s humiliation in court. They said, they had relieved the world of the ones who walked the path of deceit. They said, that they had purged the fragmented corners of Aryavarta into unison. Their arguments in favour of the war were all backed by explanations, both deific, and mundane. Everyone seemed convinced, that such a massacre was necessary, and hence had accepted the whole carnage, and the results with as much resignation as was within the tolerance of human perception. Some had resigned themselves to their fate, some to their losses, and some had resigned themselves to a death that had to materialise when time came, while the conquerors engaged themselves with the pursuit of propagating their new-found Dharma.
***
Subhadra tiredly wiped her face with her fingers, while she blankly stared at the plate that she had prepared, which in turn was untouched. All of Subhadra’s attempts to pull Bhanumati out of her grief had been vanquished with that quintessential, dead look in her eyes. Sometimes, Subhadra felt like a culprit under her gaze, though Bhanumati never uttered a word, ever since, she had seen the remnants of her broken husband, being charred by the fire in his desolate funeral. Yet, Subhadra would not give up, because, she had known the degree of Bhanumati’s vehement opposition to Suyodhan’s deed of attempting to disrobe Draupadi, on the day of the Dice-Game. But, her hopes would be shattered into pieces, once, Bhanumati’s, eternally silent denial came up, cementing the fact that she had taken herself to be dead, and she was waiting for that death to relieve her of her flesh and blood.
The lamp weakly flickered in the chamber, meekly persisting in its attempt to keep itself alive in its deemed pursuit, but, in vain. The fidgeting flame simply accentuated the coldness, in her, and the surroundings, that reeled under the aftermath of the Dharmayuddha.
“She has refused again, hasn't she?” came an unseemly melodious voice, that exuded a very unlikely warmth around her. She didn’t know why, she felt so unusually comfortable in that aura radiated by her fireborn sister-wife.
Subhadra nodded in resignation, still eyeing the untouched plate of food, expressionlessly. Her breath did not give lie to her weariness. Three whole months since the war, and, that wreckage of those eighteen days, had left an eternal burden on their beings. The once illumined palace of the Kurus, now resembled the catacombs of a tomb, that housed the dead, that breathed.The entire castle was now a mass of ruins, that was being renovated, to befit the grandeur of the capital state of the victors.
She was unsure of anything and everything around her. Every possible source of existence had been gutted. And, the only source of light was six months away, because that would be when, Uttara, Abhimanyu’s doomed widow, would give birth to the sole survivor of the Kurukshetra, who had survived the onslaught of the Brahmaastra, that Ashwatthama had shot, in a bid to turn the last stone for vengeance.
“I see your exasperation, Subhadra.” Draupadi, quietly said, putting a hand on her shoulder, while, letting out a deep, lotus-scented breath, that momentarily left her companion in a daze. Subhadra didn’t know why she had been so fascinated with Draupadi, and why that fascination didn’t cease to make itself reflect in her being even when she was in the eye of the adversity succeeding the war. Sometimes, this very phantom attraction made her cringe, in confusion, rather than anything else.
“Poor thing!” Draupadi said, her voice ridden with sympathy, at Bhanumati’s plight, her eyes straying on the plate that had initiated this conversation, that seemed to have only one participant. “At least, she still possesses the heart to bereave.” Draupadi sighed.
Subhadra’s eyebrows wrinkled, in puzzlement, and the conversation finally found a vocal participant, “What do you imply?”
She saw Draupadi’s lips curve into an enchantingly beguiling smile, bereft of even an iota of warmth, yet, sending a rumble of fire down into her gut.
“Don’t you understand, what I mean, Subhadre?” Draupadi’s voice is as low as a whisper. “Is it that you comprehend the only riddles of your brother? I’d have expected better of Parth’s favourite wife.” she laughed.
Subhadra, felt a sudden impulse of anger kicking her from within. Here she was, in a whirlpool of indifference, agony, and acrimony, all rolled into one, sucking her to the marrow, and here was Draupadi, still bearing her divine vanity, so much, that she was now making a mockery of the aggrieved. She shot her a glare, that clearly spoke that what Draupadi had spoken, was definitely inappropriate.
“Are you mocking at us?” she impulsively stood up. “Do you find our grief, our losses to be an object of mirth? Don’t you remember the loss of your sons, or is it that the Empress of Aryavarta, doesn’t allow the trivialities of such grief to belittle her existence?” she spat.
Draupadi snorted, eyeing, her sister-wife from head to foot, retaining her sobriety, and absorbing Subhadra’s words, allowing them to sink in. Grief, and disregard had been her companions ever since she had emerged from the fire. She had never been deemed to exist for anything other than her purpose of being a divine instrument to that catastrophe. As much she would have tried to lighten it, the innate, divine burden of her being came to her double-fold, and now, the characteristic vanity that celestials brought along with them, that which was habitual to them, was, held to be arrogance for others, and divine arrogance, manhandled, had spewn destruction all around.
“My sons,-” she began, “-died heroes, slain in slumber, only because they got beyond the reach of the weapons that played in the battlefield. Their death, only deepens the trench in my existence. Fireborns, can be gored, but they aren't brittle to the ravages of circumstance. My sire didn’t allow me the luxury to break.”
Subhadra, didn’t understand, the context of Draupadi’s statement.
Was breaking a relief?, she pondered.
“It is, Subhadre, it is.” Draupadi answered her thoughts. “Breaking down, for me is a relief. You, broke, when Abhimanyu lost his life, only to embark on reassembling yourself, for Uttara, and her child. Bhanumati, broke, into countless shards, when she watched Duryodhan’s pyre, burning. She knows, she is beyond assembly, and hence, she awaits her shards to decompose into oblivion, only to obtain, a lease of reunion. If one breaks, the hope of resurrection comes with it. I, on the other hand,-” Draupadi sighed, looking at herself, “-am impervious to being broken. I’ve been twisted, turned, wrenched, mutilated, even. But I haven’t broken, ever.”
Subhadra stared, Is she pitying herself?, she thought.
“Yes, my dear.” Draupadi replied, “Wondering how inappropriate that is?”
“How do you know what I’ve been thinking?” Subhadra asked her.
“A little something I picked up amongst many things in life.” Draupadi smiled.
Subhadra, could not help being inundated by the flood of warmth that surged through her. True, her life had ravaged her enough, and her circumstances had tested her enough to get her to the end of her tether. And, yet, she had stood tall, in the face of adversity, which had been adverse enough to rob the sweetness off her divinity. Subhadra, herself was divine, being an incarnation of Yogamaya, but, somehow, she had always found comfort in being human. Her celestial identity had never been thrust on her. But, Draupadi, was more than an incarnation, she was empyrean herself, and characteristics could not be severed off one’s existence.
“I’m tired, Subhadra. I’m really tired.” Draupadi sighed again.
In some inadvertent way, betraying normalcy, Subhadra’s secret unexplained fascination returned. She did not know why, her eyes, were scanning her sister-wife’s heavenly form, since she doubted if her mundane eyes, were strong enough to bear her sight. Draupadi, was exhausted, with everything, inclusive of the imposed burden of divinity that she carried, and yet, her beauty was just, so radiant, and that too in a very unlikely manner. Subhadra, was hypnotised with the sight that she beheld, as Draupadi reclined on the closest pillar in that chamber.
“Subhadre, I need a distraction.” she sighed, puzzling her more than ever, pushing her out of her trance.
“Have you spoken to Aryaputra about this?” Subhadra asked her, unsure of the propriety of her question.
Draupadi’s sardonic smile returned, with a hint of a difference that she could clearly identify to be bitter.
“Ah!” she breathed, “Parth is not man enough for me, he never was.”
Subhadra was dumbstruck. Seemingly, she had thought, that Draupadi, was just playing another of her practical jokes on her. But, the steadiness in her voice, the beautifully casual tone, was too grave to be dismissed for dark humour.
“Wondering how blasphemous it sounds?” Draupadi asked her, reading her thoughts for the umpteenth time, astounding her out of her wits. “But, let me confide in you, Subhadre, Parth was never man enough to handle me. None of them ever were! “
What on earth does she mean?, Subhadra thought.
“They fought a battle for you. They bathed the entire land of Bharata in blood so that they could set an exemplary form of justice through you. They killed their kins, they lost their offspring, they-”
Draupadi, stopped her short.
“They were emasculated in my sight, the day Parth turned me into a communal jug of wine, meaning me to be fed upon the five of them, when I was to be feted, and cherished, in holy matrimony. They lost the remnants of their manhood the day, Dharmaraja, pledged me like a cow. They were nothing more than stooges of slaves, stripped stark naked, when I was being disrobed. It was only after, Kaanha rescued me that they realised how meek they were. How they were nothing better than bottom-feeding creatures,that flourished on filth, when Duryodhan invited me to sit on his thigh. It was only after, their unsuccessful assault, that, they swore vengeance.” Draupadi words, sounded more corrosive than the venom that had been spilled in the war by way of arrows. Her sight, bore ten times the rancour of those voices that had called her by a multitude of derogatory names, after the war.
“This war, Subhadra,-” she turned her fearsome gaze towards her, “-was fought to reclaim their manhood. The sanguine river of Syamantapanchak is the relic of their attempt of consecrating themselves of the wrongs that demagogy deems to be entrapment at the hands of laws.”
“So, are you saying, that none of them, bears love for you?” she asked.
“LOVE?!” Draupadi’s voice assumes the sharpness of a double-edged sword. From her throat, emanates a laughter that is vitriolic as it is sweet, in its repulsive, yet melodious texture. Her mirthless countenance bears the radiance of the sun, even as it scorches the temperature in the chamber, setting it afire, in the heat of her laughter. Her shaking beautiful frame, is as alluring as it invokes fear, almost like Shiva in his Tandava.
“Since when could we afford that luxury, Subhadre?” she posed her question.
***
We?, the word shoves Subhadra out of her skin. Her flesh rises in response to the fireborn’s words. A fleeting sight of a pair of smouldering dark eyes, and the sound of a wind being whipped by a dextrous swing of a mace crossed her eyes. She can still feel those tanned fingers encircle her wrist in a playful moment, catching her sneaking around during practice sessions. His grave voice, playfully teasing her, steeped in the enamour brought around by first love.
His chiselled frame. His enchanting smile. His eyes, eyes that bore nothing but the affection begotten by love, for her. Eyes, that had not the slightest trace of the slanderous maneuver of his name.
His eyes.
Suyodhan!, Subhadra whispers to herself.
Suyodhan, who had selflessly loved her. Suyodhan, with whom she had known the ecstasies of first love. Suyodhan, who had parted with her with the promise that he would come back for her, and they would return together, as she would become the much-feted princess of the Kurus. Suyodhan who had given her the tenderest endearment of the most passionate kiss, as a parting gift. Suyodhan, who had kept his promise.
But, the fickle affections of girlhood, could not differentiate between affection and attraction. Those affections are sometimes enslaved by corporeal sight than, being channeled by prudent decisions, leading them to be weakened to someone else’s maneuvers. She had make herself pervious to Parth’s ministrations, and Kaanha’s misgivings towards Suyodhan, rather than allowing her own self to decide what she wanted. She had allowed Parth’s charms to supercede her affection for his cousin.
She was the one who had walked away, and had kept him waiting. Even though, she had willingly married Parth, much to Sankarshana opposition, yet she felt his saddened gaze rest on her when she had stepped out of her chariot, as Parth’s wife, who had abducted Parth out of love for him. She had not looked back ever since, because Parth had showered his affection on her to the fullest, prioritising her over his first wife, as he defiantly brought her into their household in Indraprasth. She came to be known as his favourite wife.
In the meantime, Suyodhan too had reconciled himself with her loss, as he lavished his tenderness on Bhanumati, being the perfect husband to her. Subhadra hadn't paid attention to all this, in all these years, except perhaps, in fleeting moments, when a surreptitious pang hit her, when her eyes used to meet those of Suyodhan’s. Those pangs disappeared at a moment’s notice, when she realised, that Suyodhan never spared her another glance, after his marriage to Bhanumati, who mourned his death.
How had she not noticed his exasperation, when he had been insulted in Yudhishthir’s coronation? How had she been indifferent to the furtive tears that stung his eyes, even as they hid themselves while rancourous laughter echoed from all the corners of the Assembly in Indraprasth? Why had she ignored his sadness, when he was being taunted for being a blind man’s son? Why had she not shielded him from those stares that ridiculed him in his humiliation?
***
Subhadra wiped her lips, wondering how Draupadi had known all this. Was there anything that she was unaware of?
“Indifference to lost love is another art, I’d mastered.” Draupadi said.
“I know, Parth was unfair to you. I know, he should have fought for you, when Kunti Ma-”
“I’m not referring to our much-wedded, and much-bedded husband, Subhadre.” Draupadi interrupted her. Subhadra could not miss the bitterness in her voice. She was astounded, yet, again.
Was there someone else?, she wondered.
“I’d always, been enamoured by him. His skill with the bow, his divine radiance, the aura around him. I felt he was for me. The moment he set foot in the arena, in the midst of multitudes of eyes fixed upon him in awe, as he flexed the strings of his bow, I’d felt like, there were only the two of us in there, alone, and detached from the rest of the world, with no one to see us.”
Subhadra listened. This was a night of revelations.
“And, then,-” Draupadi’s voice quivered, with a tremor that could only be brought about by grief, and regret. Subhadra, placed a hand on hers.
“Then, I broke the silence, with an acrimony that bards deem to be solidarity. The bards may propagate what appeals their listeners, but I know, Subhadre, I know, how I’d torn myself apart, when I called him a Suta, in front of a hall full of unworthy suitors! I know, how I’d ripped myself as I feigned haughtiness, while he slipped away from my fingers like a chastised dog!”
Vasusen?!, Subhadra’s insides squirm in astonishment. Kunti’s biological offspring, begotten by the Sun, who had been cast away into oblivion, because his mother chose to prioritise her famed chastity over her newborn. Arjun’s arch-rival, Vasusen, was Draupadi’s secret desire. The fact itself would have been an impossibility had she not heard it from Draupadi herself.
“And, then, he taught me the most valued lesson in life, when he took his revenge, by calling me a ‘whore’. All divine connotations bestowed on me, culminated in that one word, that day. I do not know, Subhadre, why, I expected him to come to my rescue, when Dushasan gripped me by my hair. I still do not know, why, I thought of him to stop that cannibalism, when my husbands, stood like inanimate objects. Yes, he would have rescued me, but, his valour bound itself in the condition that I had to beg. Yes, Subhadra, he expected me to beg, for my safety, while he bartered his goodness for revenge.”
“Manly egos, are such colossal seekers of attention, aren't they?” Subhadra said. She snorted. Both of them had been denied of their wishes. Draupadi, had been forced, while she had willingly submitted herself to such denial. She now knew, that she would prefer to be Suyodhan’s widow, than Parth’s wife. Suyodhan, never put his brothers and Bhanumati on stake, instead, he had made sure that he wouldn’t have to do that. The paragons of Dharma, on the other hand, had not only wagered themselves, and their wife, but had also been mute witnesses to her attempted molestation. Draupadi was right. They were nothing more than, divine pieces of vermin, with their ethical connotation, stamped on them.
“Subhadra!” Draupadi melodiously whispered, again, sending a chill down her spine, as she rested her head on her shoulder, laving her in her lotus fragrance. A certain ghost of a feeling, something that she herself was yet to decipher, and describe to herself, arose within Subhadra. She didn’t know if it was relief, or, something other than relief. All she knew, was she liked to feel that way, and somehow she felt a hint of reciprocation from Draupadi as well.
“Will you be my distraction, Subhadre?” she whispered, caressing Subhadra’s cheek. Subhadra’s insides reeled, in a manner betraying her alarm, that in turn was a mixture of pleasantness, and disturbance, all at once. Her blood, violently pulsed within her, sending her heart in a tizzy. Her scruples, arise to protest the plethora of sensations that Draupadi’s distinctly different touch sends through her.
Poor little Subhadra, Draupadi thinks, communicating her thoughts by her celestial smile. Poor baby, trepidatious of scruples!
“Don’t you dare belittle me in your thoughts!” Subhadra burst out. “Don’t you dare think that anything scares me!” she added, surprising herself for her audacity.
Draupadi snorted, again. “Your tremors betray your words, Subhadre.”
Indeed, she was trembling in a mythical mixture of awe and excitement, even as her mind bifurcated itself into contradictory strains.
“Look at us, Subhadra!” Draupadi urged, “Look what we've been reduced to! Look what we've become! Can’t we allow ourselves a little happiness?”
Subhadra could not help but agree. All her life, she had underplayed her divinity, to an extent that her mundanity had now become a habit. Slight recollections of a dream that had depicted a fantasy of a desire came up. A ghost of a phantasma, that she had brushed aside as the imaginative posturings of a troubled mind, came flooding to her. Fragments of dreams, where she had fantasised herself with Draupadi, assembled themselves as if they were played themselves right in front of her.
Draupadi, was right there, in front of her. She wanted her, as much as she wanted her fireborn sister-wife. All expressions of beauty were understatements when it came to describing Draupadi. After all, when has fire ever been subject to definitions, and she was the fire of the most raging kind. Fire, that refused to quench itself. Fire that transcended all things worldly. Fire, that refuses to be tamed, in its soft wildness. Fire that only, illusion could handle.
“Maya!” Draupadi, calls her, earnest craving in every syllable.
Yes, she, Subhadra, the incarnate of Yogamaya, was the illusion, that was capable of behold such fire in its sacred fold. Those God-born men were fools, to have let her be manhandled. They were nowhere near to deserving their divinity that had been unduly bestowed on them. Had Parth raised his voice, that day, in defence of his wife, he would have earned some respect in Subhadra’s eyes. Instead, he chose to stay quiet, and that quietness now made her wish that she hadn’t chosen him, in the first place, even now, that he was famed to be a war-hero.
Ethics had tied them, long enough. Ethics had given them sufficient denial for that lifetime. Ethics had deprived them to such an extent that now they had nothing to lose, or, regret.
“So, what will you choose, Maya? Scruples, or, satisfaction?”
A smile, uncharacteristic of Subhadra, curved her lips, while she felt a tremulous ripple surge through Draupadi, as she inches closer. She knows, that the sensation is mutual, as it plays on their touch, causing their skins to rise in response.
“You know my choice, Yajnaseni.” Subhadra whispers, before, she imprisons her companion in her arms, and her lips, lock themselves with those of Draupadi’s. Their blood sings in harmony with the other, in a melody that was celestially fierce. The ardour, simply refused to cease itself as they ravenously kissed each other, wanting to feel the very breath of the other, yearning to feel the dents that had been made on them through the years, as their fingers hungrily traced each others’ divine forms, baring themselves to the other. No joy, no ecstasy, no passion has ever had even a fraction of the amourous edge as this. Even the concrete walls around them tremble in euphoria as they behold this deific union. They know, that the engravings that their fingers leave on each other, would be borne as adornments to their already ravaged existence.
They scream each others’ names at the peak of their rapture, before Draupadi feels Subhadra, seizing her, by her raven-black hair, to captivate her lips in yet another fierce kiss. The passion pulsated through their ravelled limbs, causing their corrugations to fit themselves into the other’s corresponding irregularities, with a ferocity that refused to cease until one of them gave up. Finally, none of them gives up, since, they only withdraw themselves, before realising that they were beyond giving up.
“Satisfaction over scruples?” Draupadi breathes before, she kisses Subhadra’s swollen mouth.
“Wisest choice, we've ever made.” comes the answer, with the signature of yet another kiss.
They were at their purest. Subhadra traced Draupadi’s palm with her fingers, feeling the magnitude of adversities experienced by it. She looks into Draupadi’s eyes, that simply hold a galaxy of idiosyncrasies that can only be hers. She realises the ferocity of the fire that she is. No man, even those of divine progeny, was not man enough for them. And, they were not that petty, to need someone to complete them. After all, fire, and illusion, are consummate in themselves.
Draupadi, smiles, as she lets, another kiss from her companion linger on her palm. She knows, she has been straightened of her twists, that circumstance left on her. Her corrosions, fit perfectly into those of Subhadra’s. Nothing bound her anymore. Her tiredness, of being an instrument meant for a divine purpose was lessened. Subhadra, had lifted the burden off her existence, though, that might just be an illusion.
They were happy. They were content. They had satiated each other. And they knew that they were not always answerable for their choices. After a very long time, they find peace, while the rapture within them subsides into tranquility.
Maybe, their unrealised desires, were meant for another lifetime, where their existences would not be stamped with a deific identity with a purpose to fulfill, or with the task of being an accompaniment to the achievement of that purpose
