Perils Of Immortality

I got out of the house and stepped onto the road. The rain had just stopped. The puddles of water scattered on the road randomly. I looked at both directions of the road. There was no trace of Mamashri. I returned to the house, closed the door and sat on the sofa. I flipped the pages of a film magazine casually for some time. I heard a soft knock on the door. I walked off and opened it. Mamashri was scraping his strap sandals on the coir doormat. The flecks of soft mud stained the mat. His green shirt was soaked on patches – due to rain or perspiration or both - I could not discern.    

“So late? We have to leave for the station immediately; else we shall miss the train.” I said in a worried voice.

“Seems that Krishna does not want us – his two foes - to visit his birthplace. The train has been cancelled as waters have submerged railway tracks somewhere. I have received SMS from the Railways. I have tried to call you. Your mobile is unreachable.” told Mamashri while wiping out tiny droplets of sweat on his fair cheeks and broad forehead with a blue handkerchief. He stepped into the room leaving the door ajar.

“It’s not for the first time that I have proposed something which Krishna has disposed of,” I commented wryly.

My mobile’s battery had drained off. There was no electric supply for the last two hours. Weather was hot and humid. Mamashri opened the window. Then he walked on to the fridge. Taking a water bottle out of the fridge, he sipped half of it. He sat on the sofa and placed his smartphone on the table.

I had proposed Mamashri some days back to embark on a visit to Mathura on Janmashtami, the birthday of Krishna and had booked train reservations for us for New Delhi to Mathura.

The fan started spinning as power supply returned. Mamashri closed the door and window and switched on the AC. I put my mobile phone on charge.

Reclining on the sofa, I switched on the TV and surfed through the channels. Several channels were airing special programs on Krishna to mark his birth anniversary. I set at a program on Krishna in a Hindi news channel. 

Little Krishna was searching for butter in his mother’s kitchen and a voiceover was describing his divinity. When he was about to reach the container hanging from the ceiling, a luxury car interrupted his efforts – an advertisement break.

“People of Kali Yuga know much more of Krishna than people of Dwapara Yuga. His popularity has increased manifolds with the passage of time. On the contrary, see our perils; we - you Ashwatthama and me Kripacharya - his contemporaries and immortals – two greatest warriors not only of Mahabharata but also of all eras in the world - are eking out a living by running a training institute in Gurgaon for security guards deployed in numerous residential and office buildings in Delhi NCR. Down with immortality!” lamented Mamashri frowning his thick and white eyebrows.

“From grandiose war-craft against Krishna and Pandavas to hackneyed squabbles with rowdy neighbours over their cars’ parking on the road obstructing entrance to our house -  what a wretched relegation in our status. Damn deathlessness!” I grudged.

I walked to the fridge and took out two cans of flavoured milk. I handed over a can to Mamashri. Getting back to the sofa, I opened the can and emptied it with a single gulp. Could my father Dronacharya afford milk for me during my childhood; the course of Mahabharata would have been different, I thought. 

‘Down the way where the nights are gay.’ Mamashri’s mobile buzzed. The song was its latest ringtone. He picked the phone. “I am not interested, thank you.” He disconnected the call. “A young girl is trying to sell a life insurance policy to me. What the heck?” agitated Mamashri left for his room switching off the AC.   

I switched off the TV and walked into my room. The mirror on the cupboard reflected my appearance. A neatly made sculpture under the blue denim jeans and a white t-shirt, I self-congratulated myself. I was immensely proud of my well-maintained physique except for the scar on my forehead. “Should I do cosmetic surgery to get rid of it?” I pondered. “Whenever I see it, it reminds me of my past. Past of how many thousands of years? I have stopped counting. I am bored with time; I am even more bored with life.”

I went over to the window and peered outside. The rain was drizzling as if tattered tiny threads were falling from the sky. An aeroplane was flying under grey clouds high above the skyscrapers.

I and Mamashri Kripacharya had settled here in Gurgaon for the first time almost five hundred years ago and had been staying here intermittently since then. I had spent most part of my youth here with my father Guru Dronacharya. The place is named after him.

After the battle of Kurukshetra, being cursed by Krishna, I had to undergo terrible physical and mental agony for 3000 years roaming lonely in the forests. Once the desolate period was over, I returned to human civilization and since then have been living a life in disguise concealing my real identity.

The worst of all perils for an immortal human being is living under constant trepidation of being identified as an immortal. If an immortal is recognized as an immortal to the world, he is doomed forever. His life would be subject to endless inquisitiveness and unrelenting research by the generations after generations of mortal human beings to satisfy their curiosities. He would become an eternal Guinea Pig in the infinite laboratory of the world. I and Mamashri are aware of it and that’s why would never disclose our real identities. We change our habitats frequently to hide our immortality. However, we can return to our previously inhabited place after a long period when all of our previous acquaintances in the area are dead. Though I have been living for many thousand years, I always look like a man of his late twenties. If I come to a new place as a man of late twenties and remained to look same forever, it would raise the curiosity of the people of the area which would lead to revealing of my identity and immortality.

I have been witnessing changes in the world, civilizations and societies over thousands of years. I have made acquaintances with numerous emperors, kings, sages, warriors, elites, philosophers, theologians, scientists, reformers, dictators, politicians, celebrities, and common folks – from Dwapara Yuga to present days of Kali Yuga.

                                                               

I could remember Chankya’s speech around 2300 years ago in the court of Chandragupta Maurya in Pataliputra.

I was travelling as a saffron-clad monk. It was wintertime. I attended a religious conference on the bank of Ganga in Pataliputra. My speeches impressed Chandragupta Maurya who was present at the conference. He invited me to his court for an audience.

The next day, Chandragupta’s messenger took me to his palace on a chariot. While we were travelling to the palace, the loquacious messenger told me that Chanakya, Chandragupta’s advisor, had not been interested in sending the chariot for a non-descript monk like me; however, since it was emperor’s instruction, he could not overrule. The chariot arrived at the palace. We alighted and walked into Chandragupta’s court. The emperor was sitting on a throne placed on a dais. The courtiers were sitting in rows in front of him. A veteran man was delivering a speech to the audience standing on the right side of the emperor below the dais. Seeing us entering the court, he stopped his speech. As I was walking towards the emperor, the man observed me keenly with his prying eyes. I presumed him to be Chanakya. I greeted the emperor. He reciprocated with a royal smile folding his hands. The messenger gestured me to take a seat in the front row.

The man resumed his interrupted speech. 

“During the third part of the day, he should take bath and meals and devote himself to study and again during the second part of the night; he should take bath and meals and engage in study.” The man was lecturing in an authoritarian voice.

I could decipher nothing. Who was ‘He’ who was required to go through the rigorous rituals of bathing every time before he took his meal and study even in the night time?

Once his speech was over, I asked the gentleman with sword-like mustachios under his domed nose sitting next to me about the lecturer. The lecturer was Chanakya. I was right.

“Chanakya keeps on delivering unsolicited advice. Since he is influential to the emperor, we hear him. Don’t take his every word seriously.” suggested the wise gentleman.

Soon after my exile in forests of 3000 years had been over, I fanatically began searching for my maternal uncle Kripacharya, who was also immortal.

I had wandered almost all regions comprising today’s Asia and adjacent parts of Europe in search of Mamashri over thousands of years. About 1400 years ago, I was on my way to Afghanistan. At Khyber Pass, I met a traveller – a white man – coming from somewhere in Central Europe. He was an arms dealer travelling to meet Emperor Harshavardhana to offer arms at a discounted price. The travelling man was carrying some sample arms which he showed to me. The design of the arms was identical to certain weapons used in the battle of Kurukshetra. It raised my curiosity.

“Where have you sourced these arms from?” I asked the traveller.

“I have procured it from a faraway place.” He replied.

“Where is the place? Who has made these arms?”

“These weapons are made by an Indian sage. He has set up a vast weapon factory. ‘Weapon’ means ‘Astra’ in his mother-tongue. So, the place, where he has established his gigantic arms factory, has earned the name Austria.”

“What is the name of the sage?” my eyes gleamed in hope.

“He is known as Krips Archer” replied the traveller.

I jumped in joy. In reaction, the man jumped in fear.

Understanding the route from the man, I reached Austria after travels of many months and found my Mamashri Kripacharya aka Krips Archer there. After a lot of persuasions, Mamashri had agreed to divest his arms manufacturing venture. We returned to India.

When I and Mamashri settled in Gurgaon for the first time about 500 years ago, Babur had just founded Mughal Empire in India defeating Ibrahim Lodhi in the first battle of Panipat. Anarchy, rebellion and battle were regular affairs in the region. The situations had provided us with a good business opportunity. We had opened a school in Gurgaon to provide military training to young men. I even once had been tempted to put banners with words ‘Military School run by Kurukshetra War Veterans’ to lure the young chaps to our school; however, I could resist myself at the last moment. After the battle of Kurukshetra, neither I nor Mamashri had ever participated in any battle. It would have been far below our dignity. Thanks to our expertise and experience in the warfare of the Mahabharata period, we were able to impart indomitable combat skills to our students. The reputation of our military school reqched far-flung places across India soon and the young men enrolled in our school in droves. The paying guest business in Gurgaon had taken its roots since then which has flourished over the years and thriving even today. The students passed out from our school become the best combatants and were recruited by the emperors, kings & chieftains. Had we opened our military school a little before, during the regime of Ibrahim Lodhi, the history of India could have been different – Ibrahim Lodhi could win the battle of Panipat using the unparalleled combat skills of the dexterous alumni of our school.

The reputation of our school reached to Badshah Babur and he paid a visit to our school.

His cavalcade comprised of seven elephants and eighty-six Arabian horses. Clouds of dust enveloped the surroundings amid horse’s neighs and occasional trumpets of pachyderms. In his long-sleeved coat and turban, getting down from the elephant, Badshah Babur greeted salaam to Mamashri and me. Reciprocating to his gesture, we ushered him into our school premise.

“We are happy to receive the emperor of India Badshah Babur to our poor dwellings,” Mamashri told him courteously.

“I have heard about the exceptional military training provided in your school from many of my acquaintances including my chief personal security officer who is an alumnus of your school,” Badshah told.

“It’s our honour that your chief personal security officer is a former student of our school, your honour,” I said politely.

He signalled to one of his escorts who was holding a voluminous packet wrapped in colourful clothes in his hand. The escort handed it over to Badshah.

“This is a small gift from me to you – one copy of my autobiography ‘Baburnama’ translated into Sanskrit.” He told Mamashri offering the packet.

“Thank you, Badshah. I am humbled receiving your invaluable gift,” uttered Mamashri.

“I would like to show you a cannon. I am sure you have never seen a weapon which is capable of killing hundreds of soldiers in a single shot. I have brought it to India and used in the battle of Panipat.” Badshah proclaimed proudly and ordered his escorts to bring the cannon.

I and Mamashri glanced at each other and concealed our smiles. “Badshah Babur is bragging himself to Ashwatthama and Kripacharya about his cannon used during the battle of Panipat which could kill hundreds of soldiers in a single blow. Oh, dear Babur! Kurukshetra is not far from Panipat. My Narayan Astra or Brahmashirsha Astra could annihilate a hundred thousands of soldiers in a single blow. Had Krishna not tricked, I could win the battle of Kurukshetra for Duryodhana single-handedly.” I was reflecting in my mind. 

Ten men carrying cannon walked into the school premise.

“This is a cannon. Keep it in your school. I will ask one of my soldiers to teach you how to operate it. You must know.” Badshah said.

“We will.” Mamashri nodded in agreement.

“I would be glad to appoint you as my military advisor,” Badshah told Mamashri.

“Thank you for your gracious offer, your honour. However, since I have become old, I will not be able to do justice to the post offered by you.” Mamashri expressed respectfully.      

“As you wish, Chancellor. Please let me know if you need any help.” Badshah moved out of the premise and climbed up to the top of the elephant. The elephant moved and the cavalcade accompanied.

The rain had stopped. The pigeon couple flew from the nest they built on the window sill, probably, in search of foods.

I got back to the drawing-room and picked my mobile. I noticed three missed calls and one unread WhatsApp message. I checked the missed calls and opened WhatsApp.

“Why are you not picking my calls? What do you think of yourself? Hundreds of boys like you can do anything just to speak a word with me. And you - a poor orphan boy staying under uncle - are ignoring me! How dare you? Which quality do you have? What hero do you think you are? What family lineage do you have? I can throw you out of Gurgaon in a moment.” It was a message from Isha – spoilt young daughter of a very rich real estate builder. We had met at a gym a couple of weeks back and since then she had been after me. More I ignore her, more she becomes crazy. Her madness reminds me craziness of Duhshala, only daughter of King Dhritarashtra and Queen Gandhari. Duhshala was in crazy love with me; even she proposed me to elope with her. I did not respond to her love – not in fear of possible wrath of her hundred ruffian brothers - I was afraid of my casteist father Dronacharya. I am a Brahmin and Duhshala was Kshatriya. I knew my father would never approve of it. Ignoring Duhshala’s love with a heavy heart, I have been practising celibacy. How could I convey this message to the builder’s daughter?