AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (12 page)

Karna immediately realized his error of judgement. The Confederate armies had resisted using unconventional weapons thus far. Till then the battle had been fought using
Hastamuktha
arrows and manual weapons. Now that he had broken the unwritten code of warriors by using a
Yantramuktha
missile, launched from a mechanical contraption, there was nothing to stop them pounding the Hastinapura army with their own missiles. It had been a trap and he had fallen into it. Karna berated himself for being an unthinking fool.

Smoking arrows carrying poisonous herbs started descending on his forces.
Nagastras
! They were notorious for leaving a trail of smoke that carried death with every breath. Karna’s men started falling as the smoke spread among the ranks. He desperately searched for the antidote. His Guru had taught him about the herbs capable of neutralizing the
Nagastras.
Where was the damned cache? Choking and coughing, Karna rummaged through his weapons. A fire-tipped arrow lodged itself in the canopy above his head and the material burst into flames. Through the haze and smoke he saw a pot of oil flying towards him and the smile on Uthayan’s face. Time was running out. Karna quickly mixed the herb powders, praying he had got it right. He did not even wish to imagine the terrible consequences, should the mixture go wrong. He thanked God for the body armour that protected him from the arrows that struck him. He put the mixture into a pot of oil and loaded it in the catapult. The pot began smoking, emitting a noxious smell.

An arrow struck one of Karna’s horses. Something exploded near him, bursting into flames. It was only a matter of time before an oil pot exploded inside the chariot, which stood tilted at a crazy angle. The charioteer lay dead, an arrow sticking out of his neck. The wounded horse whinnied in agony, making the chariot rattle.

As if possessed, Karna mixed ingredients and hurled pots among his men. Those who had survived the first blast of the
Nagastras
began recovering with his antidote. The time had come to pay back the Confederate armies, but before that, he had to release the horse from its agony. To do so, he had to get down from the chariot – a dangerous step which would make him vulnerable. Karna jumped down. Instantly, the shower of arrows harassing him stopped. He turned to look and read the impatience in Uthayan’s eyes to slay him but the Chera King held fire until Karna got back into position.

The moment Karna once again stepped into the chariot, an arrow struck his thigh and fell off. He shot back in anger, pinning Uthayan’s hand to the shaft of the canopy above him. Karna could see blood spurting from the wound as the Asura King tried to free his hand. He toyed with the idea of sending an arrow into the throat of his foe, but remembered Uthayan had not shot him when he was out of his chariot. Instead, Karna’s next arrow pinned Uthayan’s other hand, causing him to close his eyes in pain. The Confederate forces rushed forward to prevent Karna from killing one of their Kings. Even in his pinned position, Uthayan barked commands and the army closed in. The warriors of Kalinga surrounded Karna. He attempted to keep them at bay, but the circle was shrinking fast.

When all seemed lost, Karna saw the Brahmin warrior from Kalinga, the man who had plunged into the enemy ranks. He had managed to stay alive and reach the rear of the enemy lines. Karna saw a flame-tipped arrow rise high into the sky and fall deep into the Confederate elephant corps. For a moment nothing happened, then the first elephant ran amok, smashing into the one ahead of it. The second elephant turned back, enraged, breaking rank and starting a stampede. The panicked elephants charged, trampling friend and foe alike. The smell of poisonous herbs and powders pervaded the air. There were explosions everywhere. Oil pots burst and catapults discharged, creating ever more panic and rage in the elephants.

The horses, struggling to get free, dragged Karna’s chariot hither and thither. An elephant smashed into Uthayan’s chariot, toppling it. The mammoth gored the horses with its iron-capped tusks and crushed the Chera King’s chariot into rubble. There was no way Uthayan could have survived that, thought Karna. But before he could indulge in a sense of relief, he was thrown from his own chariot by a stampeding elephant. The wooden box hung perilously above him for a second, as if hesitating to fall over him. Then, with a sickening crash, the chariot came down on him, trapping him inside its dark confines.

Karna tried to lift the chariot, pushing with his powerful shoulders. His whole body ached. What was that low rumbling outside? The whinnying of the horses and the trumpeting of elephants filtered through the cracks of his coffin. The Southern Confederate elephants were running amok, his upturned chariot in their path, with him trapped inside like a bauble in a baby’s rattle.

The lid of the cache containing the poisonous weapons flew open and powders began raining on him. A skin-burning itching and throat-choking blackness descended on Karna.

*****

10
   
A
HIMSA

“KRISHNA, WHY DID YOU DO IT?”
Balarama knelt beside the lifeless bodies of Dhantavakra and Shalva.

“They were trying to kill us all, you, me, Balarama...”

“No, Krishna, they were not; we had already defeated them. They were on the verge of surrender. They had put down their arms. Balarama had proposed an honourable surrender, but you...” Kritavarma stood glaring at Krishna, puzzlement and contempt fighting their own battle over the lined terrain of his face.

“Kritavarma, they were going to sack our city. They were killed in battle. Does it matter how? Yes, I used my
Sudharshana
from behind to cut their undeserving throats. An enemy slain is an enemy less. The methods are mere details. My city and people are safe and that is the only thing that counts. Why is there an argument over it? Instead of wasting time, we should be looking for their leader, ah...Ekalavya. Where has he vanished to?”

Balarama stood up wearily and began walking through the battlefield, wet with blood and excreta. The battle was over; the Yadavas had won; but the weight of victory caused his shoulders to stoop. He did not want to stand there and listen to his brother and his Commander argue over the rights and wrongs of the war. All war was wrong. The wailing widows walking from the city gates in procession to search for the bodies of their loved ones was proof enough for him. For a child who had lost his father, what did it matter whether they had won or not? ‘Oh, Rama, what have I done?’ His heart heavy with sorrow, Balarama walked on. As he stopped to look at each body with equal pain, unmindful whether the dead one was Yadava or Naga, the vultures fluttered their wings angrily, waiting for access to the pickings.

Balarama stopped near a Naga who, at death’s door, was trying to say something. Balarama put his ear close to his mouth. “Water,” the feeble voice said. Something inside Balarama’s mind gave way with the simple request of the dying man. He ran about, frantically searching for water. He yelled to some guards to fetch water. Krishna and Kritavarma stopped their argument to stare. Krishna ran towards his brother, trying to mask his concern.

“Krishna, get some water. The poor man is dying. Hurry...”

“Brother, he is beyond help. It was war. Let the man die like a warrior. What has happened to you?” Krishna turned to order a soldier to fetch water for the dying man.

A guard came running with a pot of water and Balarama snatched it from his hands. But when he turned, the Naga had no need of the water. His lifeless eyes stared at Balarama. The pot fell from his hands and broke, water drenching the blood-soaked earth. The leader of the Yadavas stood staring at the little bubbles that lingered on the surface for a few moments before popping. Balarama turned and walked towards the palace, dragging his mace over the ground, trying to shut out the images of the dead and dying. He walked past the wailing widows and did not even pause to acknowledge the bows of his soldiers.

“Where had the Nishada vanished? We should have taken him, dead or alive.”

Balarama paused a moment when he heard his brother chastise the soldiers. He knew where Ekalavya had vanished to but he did not wish to tell Krishna. He had seen Ekalavya running along the fort walls when Krishna was slaying Shalva. For a moment Balarama had considered shooting the Nishada down with an arrow. He knew he could do it, yet he did not. Ekalavya had vanished. He may have jumped into the sea. It was a steep drop from the ramparts and it was doubtful that he had made it alive. If he had survived, he deserved to live. But let his path never cross that of his brother.

Balarama walked on, his head bent low. He felt like a criminal. ‘Why did I kill so many people? Who am I to take the life of another living being?’ Violence and bloodshed, he was sick of it. He did not hear the cheers of the people who thronged the road. Krishna’s chariot stopped near him. Balarama looked at his brother standing in all his divine glory. When he shook his head, Krishna’s chariot moved forward with a jerk. From both sides of the road, people threw garlands and coins. Victory cries rent the air. Balarama remained deaf to the cheering. ‘Rama, Rama, what have I done?’ he mumbled to himself as he walked, his feet crushing the flowers his people were throwing at him.

Krishna’s eyes searched for Ekalavya. Where had the Nishada vanished? He was dangerous. Krishna admired the man who had fought his way up from the bottom of the caste hierarchy and turned himself into a fearsome warrior. But the Nishada was filled with bitterness, and that made him a danger to society. He had to be made to see reason. A man who was so determined could be utilised for the benefit of society, provided he knew his position. He was born a Nishada; instead of trying to be a Kshatriya, why he did not concentrate on making the lives of his fellow Nishadas better? Why he was so bent on beating Arjuna and proving himself the better warrior? What if every Nishada started feeling that way? No, for peace, everyone had to strive to be better within his
kuladharma.
If he wanted respect, why did he not become a sanyasi? The path of spirituality had no
varna,
or
jati.
Valmiki had been a dacoit before he became a hermit and wrote the
Ramayana;
Vyasa was a fisherman’s son; Viswamitra a Kshatriya; yet they were all respected irrespective of their caste in their
purvashrama.
But when people aspired for what was not destined for them, they created havoc. Parashurama was an example. The Brahmin had caused so much bloodshed trying to act like a Kshatriya. Aswathama was another danger; he could bring disaster trying to act like a Kshatriya. But Karna’s audacity was the most intolerable. Society was in shambles. If only his brother had captured Ekalavya, he could have made the Nishada see reason. Who knew, with his intelligence he could have become another great poet who would chronicle the story of Gods and
avatars.
Where had the man gone?

Unknown to Krishna, Ekalavya was fighting a grim battle for survival just a few
yojanas
away from the Dwaraka fort. In this, neither his superlative skills with the bow nor his prowess with the sword were of any help. All alone in the roaring, frothing darkness, under a dark and uncaring sky, the waves exploded with mirth as they pounded him senseless.

*****

11
   
T
HE
C
HASE

“BEWARE!” THE YOUNG CAPTAIN SHOUTED.

Aswathama yanked on his horse’s reins, bringing the steed to a plunging halt in the very nick of time. A massive boulder missed him by inches and crashed onto the narrow path behind him with a thud. It then bounced down the cliff’s face and disappeared into the river deep below, felling a few trees on its way. The splash of the boulder hitting the water sounded unusually loud.

When the dust cleared, Aswathama was still trying to steady his panicked horse. One missed step and he knew he would follow the path made by the boulder and splatter like an eggshell a thousand feet below. His heart pounded in his chest. Had the boulder been an accident or was someone following them? He looked around; the place looked desolate and forlorn. Nothing stirred. Far below, the Deodar trees in the valley had turned white with their burden of snow. The eerie silence when the wind stopped howling was frightening. The mountain crouched like a wounded beast. He had undertaken this mission thinking it would be an adventure. He had always longed to see the ivory-tipped peaks of the Himalayas. It had been so inviting and he had jumped at the opportunity. In the distance, he could see the mountain ranges dissolving into the sky. He wanted to rub his hands to get the circulation back but was afraid to let go of the reins. It was freezing cold. The chill pierced his skin and gnawed at his bones. But more than the elements, it was the inaction and boredom that was killing him.