Haunted by the dreadful vision of the future painted by Vyasa, Dhritarashtra sat in his private chamber, entombed within his lonely self. The only person to keep him company was Sanjaya, who now acted as his eyes and ears. After a brief spell of silence, the king said: ‘Here, in my royal chamber, I feel like someone lost in a well of loneliness. In my mind’s ear, I hear the wheels of Time grinding on, throwing dust into my eyes – the dust of my misery and anguish. What greater affliction can befall a man than blindness?
‘From room to room, I seem to be dragging my body, like a log of wood. Or, like a blind cowherd, leading his cows through a ravaged field. Not for me any demarcations of time. I know not when sunset turns into night, spring into summer, autumn into winter. Indeed, I can breathe in the aroma of what you call a rose. But when its thorns prick my fingers, I cannot tell if it is water or blood.
‘But above all, there’s the agony of not being able to see the faces around me – not even that of my wife Gandhari, who has blindfolded herself voluntarily to share my pain. Nor your face either, O Sanjaya. Are you fair or dark, tall or short? Is your forehead broad or narrow?’
‘Does it matter, O King, if I am fair or dark?’ responded Sanjaya. ‘Do souls have any colour? What colour is the spirit when it abandons the body, vanishing into the cosmos?’
‘Well, I was talking of the body, not spirit,’ countered the king. ‘But you are bandying words – words, words, words… I do understand that when strung into sentences, like pearls in the necklace around my neck, words can be preserved on a scroll. But why does this scroll turn into ash at my touch – ash that I can smear on my forehead as the mark of my ill-fated birth.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, do words change colour when spoken in anger or love, malice or compassion, denial or affirmation? Sometimes, I fantasize if only the gods could grant me the boon of sight for just one day, before I close my eyes forever. Then I may carry with me memories of the faces of my loved ones – my wife, my children, my friends. A foolish fantasy, I know, of a blind man!’
‘My heart bleeds to see you in such pain,’ said Sanjaya. ‘But your blindness, O King, was God’s will to which you must submit stoically. There is no other way.’
‘There you go again, spinning words, words, words…’
‘I know such words are no balm to a wound,’ Sanjaya tried to console the king. ‘But I do feel honoured to be the mirror of your soul, as though you are talking to yourself. How very privileged I am to be your charioteer!’
‘Privileged?’ Dhritarashtra turned around, his tone poignant. ‘Of course, you are now my eyes and my ears. I am lucky to have you as my companion. You are the one now endowed by Vyasa with the faculty to see people hundreds of miles away, and also hear them even if they talk in whispers. Your eyes can pierce through a granite wall, through mist or hail. But can you also hear a man talking to himself? Can you tell me, for instance, what my son, Duryodhana, is thinking at this moment, as he stands miles away on the battlefield of Kurukshetra?’
‘That is beyond my faculties, O King,’ replied Sanjaya, ‘since I can only see a man or hear him speak. I cannot fathom the thoughts in his mind. Each man’s thoughts are his private treasure to guard against any prying eye or ear. A man’s mind is his fortress, with ramparts so high that not even an eagle can scale them. His thoughts and emotions are like rocks and ferns submerged far below the surface of the sea. They are buried in the secret chambers of this mind, you know. A man may scowl or smile and yet camouflage his inner thoughts. So ask me not, O King, what Prince Duryodhana is thinking.’
‘All right, can you tell me if the battle has begun… Oh, the horrible visions!’
‘Not yet,’ answered Sanjaya. ‘It will start in a short while, I guess. Presently, I see the dawn’s russet gradually deepening into the crimson of sunrise. But, surprisingly, I don’t hear any birds greeting the daybreak. Have they flown away, frightened by the imminent disaster? It is their premonition of the catastrophe to come, I imagine.’ He paused. ‘My eyes now capture a multitude of images,’ Sanjaya resumed. ‘Of caparisoned elephants and horses, and soldiers in shining armour. I see even the nuts and bolts in the chariots’ wheels, sparkling like diamonds… And now a mélange of sounds – of elephants trumpeting, horses neighing. I also hear the blowing of conches. Has the moment arrived?’
‘All this apeears to be a prelude to some gruesome scenario,’ said Dhritarashtra. ‘Tell me, Sanjaya, where is my son standing? What is he doing? I know he is well fortified – with his guru Dronacharya by his side and Radheya, his dear friend. And, above all, the invincible Bheeshma Pitamaha, whom death cannot touch, unless it is summoned by him. So why should I allow these dark thoughts to unman me. In spite of what Vyasa has predicted, I know my son will come home to me triumphant, with his gada raised high in his right hand and his face glowing like that of a lion looming over its kill.’
‘Yes, O King, I can share your fantasy,’ interposed Sanjaya. ‘But we mortals are pawns to our horoscopes, whose occult signs govern our destiny. Like flies we are, transfixed on a parchment – heavily layered with syrup, wings trapped. Maybe Vyasa’s eyes could penetrate the future, but I am not sure.’
‘Are you trying to push me deep into the shadows?’ Dhritarashtra sighed. ‘Sometimes I feel that while you stay here with me as my companion, your heart lies elsewhere. So I am back in my cave of loneliness.’
‘You wrong me, O King. I just meant that the future is a mystery that jealously guards its secrets. It is a page in a book that has not yet been opened. It is a sly bird that will always dodge the archer’s arrow. It is a territory that will never be charted by any explorer.’
‘There you go again, spinning cobwebs of words,’ said Dhritarashtra, petulance lacing his voice.
‘I merely say what I believe in, and what I see and hear,’ said Sanjaya.
‘Then tell me, where is Duryodhana?’ the king asked. ‘Is he talking to anyone?’
‘Yes, there he is. I see him walking towards Dronacharya and speaking to him. His words now come to me clearly, as if I were right by his side.’
‘Relay to me his words, Sanjaya!’ Dhritarashtra said eagerly. ‘Not a syllable dropped, not a pause missed. I am famished to hear it all – with a blind man’s bottled-up impatience to see and hear everything.’