“
He stood by Draupadi, who had lost her balance and fallen on the scorched earth, among the thorny bushes. Her shoulder-bones twitched as she lay with her lips pressed to the earth, her breath faint. He knelt down beside her. Withdrawing the hand that had shot forward to touch her shoulder, he called: ‘Draupadi!’
Draupadi’s exhausted form stirred. She sat up with an effort. Bhima saw with relief that her eyes, which had first wandered all around as if seeing nothing, were gradually becoming clearer.
But he saw only disappointment reflected in them. Yudhishtira and Arjuna had not waited for her. No one had waited.
He repeated, ‘I am here.’
Her eyes became hard, then grew moist. They followed those who had gone ahead, into the emptiness of the desert. She saw no one. The wind had erased even the footprints of those who had gone that way in search of eternal peace.
She looked at Bhima, who stood bewildered, not knowing what to do for her. He saw the silent questions that crowded her eyes.
Her lips moved. But he could not make out the words she managed to speak. He longed to know whether they expressed gratitude, or were a prayer, or whether they asked for forgiveness. Or were they a curse on those who had gone away?
He waited for her lips to move again.
A prayer took shape in his mind: say something, for the last time, say something. Just once.
Once again, Draupadi’s tired head slipped down.
Somewhere in front of them, could he hear the sound of the wheels of the heavenly chariot approaching to welcome Yudhishtira? Somewhere very far away?
What he actually heard, however, was from the distant past. Chariot wheels rolling over palace courtyards, forest paths, the battlefield …
Bhima sat down sorrowfully, waiting for her eyes to open, gazing steadily at her.
Then he smiled.
”
”
M.T. Vasudevan Nair (രണ്ടാമൂഴം | Randamoozham)