Pandu — ah, Pandu the pale, whose mother had turned white upon seeing me — Pandu never lacked in strength or courage. (Nor, unlike his half-brother, in eyesight, though he did take to wearing curious little roundish glasses that gave him the appearance of a Bengali teacher or a Japanese admiral.) What Pandu never had much of was judgement — or, as some of his admirers prefer to see it, luck. He too could have enjoyed the English education Dhritarashtra revelled in, but he did not even complete the Indian version of it. After insisting, with more pride than judgement, on pursuing his studies in India rather than in England, he was expelled from one of the country’s best colleges for striking a teacher, an Englishman, who had called Indians ‘dogs’. Yes, we Indians do have a number of dog-like characteristics, such as wagging our tails at white men carrying sticks, and our bark is usually worse than our bite. But Pandu could not resist showing his Professor Kipling one attribute of the species that most of us, including the distinguished academic, had overlooked — teeth. It was a pattern of conduct that was to last all his life.
Finally, for ever bringing up the rear (for reasons of ancestry and nothing else), came my son Vidur Dharmaputra. In intellectual gifts and administrative ability he outshone his two brothers, but knowing from the very beginning that unlike them he had no claim on a kingly throne, he developed a sense of modesty and self-effacement that would enhance his effectiveness in his chosen profession. For Vidur became that most valuable and underrated of creatures, the bureaucrat. He did brilliantly in his examination, stood First Class First throughout and, along with many of the country’s finest minds, applied for entry into the Indian Civil Service.
Queen Victoria had thrown the doors of the ICS open to ‘natives’ immediately after the 1857 revolt (which the British preferred to call a ‘mutiny’). No one was quite sure how far Britannia meant to waive the rules, but two Indians, both Bengalis, did achieve the miraculous distinction of entry — Satyendra Nath Tagore and Surendra Nath Banerjee. Indian exhilaration soon turned to resignation, however, when Banerjee was drummed out of the service a few years later, on a series of trumped-up charges. From the early years of our century, though, things began to change. When Vidur applied, there were more Indians being admitted to the civil service, adding their supposedly baser mettle to the ‘steel frame’ of the Raj. Vidur topped the written examinations to the ICS, in which one’s name did not figure on the test paper; in the interview, regrettably, the same degree of anonymity did not prevail, and he found himself rapidly downgraded, but not so far as to miss selection altogether. So he joined the ICS’s emerging administrative alloy, and before long was a rising star in the States Department, which looked after the princely states — among them Hastinapur.
You see, Ganapathi, this old man’s seed was not wasted, after all, eh? Whatever people might think. Pass me that handkerchief, will you? My eyes are misting on me.
10
But we must get back to our story. Where were we, Ganapathi? Ah, yes — my sons. When the three young men reached marriageable age, Gangaji summoned them to his study.
‘You are the hope of Hastinapur,’ he said sagely. ‘I have brought you up to carry on our noble line, and when you assume the responsibilities of rulers, I wish to be free to pursue other interests. But I cannot give up the regency and retreat to an ashram without first assuring not just your accession but the succession to yourselves as well. (One can never be too sure.) I have been making discreet inquiries, and I have identified three suitable ladies, of impeccable descent and highly praised beauty, with whom I intend to arrange your marriages. What do you have to say to this?’
It was Vidur who spoke first; Vidur could always be relied upon to take his cue and to say the right thing at the right time. ‘You have been both a father and a mother to us, Gangaji,’ he said dutifully. ‘You have brought us up to follow your instructions in all matters. The shastras say that the word of a guru is law to his disciples. Why should it be any different now? If you want us to marry these ladies of your choice, it would be an honour as well as a duty to obey you.’
Pandu gave his low-born brother an expressive look, as indeed Dhritarashtra might have, had he been able. But both remained silent, particularly since Gangaji had seized upon Vidur’s answer with barely concealed satisfaction and was already detailing his plans.
‘For you, Dhritarashtra, the eldest, I have found a girl from a very good family of Allahabad. She is called Gandhari, and I am told she has lustrous black eyes. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that that matters, of course. No, the main attraction of this lovely lady, from our point of view, is that she hails from a most productive line. Her mother had nine children, and her grandmother seventeen. There is a story in the family that Gandhari has obtained the boon of Lord Shiva to have no less than a hundred sons.’ Seeing that Dhritarashtra appeared somewhat underwhelmed by the prospect, Gangaji spoke in a sterner tone of voice. ‘You can never be too careful with these British, my son. They have had their designs on Hastinapur for years.’
‘Whatever you say, Bhishma,’ Dhritarashtra replied, deliberately using the name that recalled Gangaji’s terrible vow of celibacy. The older man looked at him sharply, but Dhritarashtra remained expressionless behind his dark glasses.
‘For you, Pandu, I propose Kunti Yadav,’ Gangaji went on, noting with pleasure the young man’s sharp intake of breath, for the beauty of Miss Yadav was widely known across the country. And though she was a princess only by adoption, many a more important raja might not have been averse to grafting her branch on to their family tree, were it not for the faint whiff of scandal that clung to her name.
‘I’m delighted, of course,’ Pandu said, looking even paler than usual. ‘But, Gangaji — ’
‘Say no more.’ The saintly loincloth-clad figure raised his hand. ‘I know what you are about to ask. And I have, of course, made inquiries.’ He settled his rimless glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose and opened a red- ribboned folder. ‘Miss Kunti Yadav has, despite her unquestioned beauty and the good name of her adoptive family, received no, repeat no, offers of marriage to date. The reason: it appears that there may have been, ah. . a certain indiscretion in her past.’
Gangaji looked up at the perspiring Pandu, who was visibly hanging on his every word, his eyes roving restlessly from his uncle to the open dossier before him. ‘It seems,’ he went on, ‘that Miss Yadav might have conducted a brief and entirely unwise liaison with a certain Hyperion Helios, a foreign visitor at her father’s palace. From what I have been able to ascertain and divine, it would seem that Mr Helios was a very charming and wealthy man of the world, who radiated an immense presence and warmth, and it is easy to imagine how an impressionable and inexperienced young maiden could be taken in by the blandishments of this plausible stranger. No one knows what exactly transpired between them, but it does appear that Mr Helios was ordered summarily out of the palace by his host, and,’ Gangaji looked up at the anxious Pandu, ‘that Miss Yadav went into near-total seclusion for several months. Some people draw conclusions from all this that are not flattering to the young lady. For myself, having reviewed all the elements of the case, I cannot see that much blame attaches to the Princess Kunti. If we were all to be punished for ever for the errors of our youth, the world would be a particularly gloomy place. Certainly, there has been no suggestion of the slightest misconduct since by the lady, but our princely marriage-makers have unforgiving hearts. I believe we in Has-tinapur have a somewhat more generous spirit. Will you accept her, Pandu?’