AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (59 page)

“Karna...Karna, you defeated them?” Suyodhana whispered. His swollen thighs had turned black; gangrene had begun to set in and his body burned with fever.

Aswathama was overwhelmed with emotion, Suyodhana was not dead. Then bitterness washed over hm. “Suyodhana, Karna did not win the war, I did. He had the opportunity to kill Yudhishtra, Bhima and the twins, but he did not, because he gave his word to the mother of the Pandavas. He gave away his armour so people would think he was a great man. He betrayed you for his own glory and still you speak only his name?”

“Who...are you?”

“Suyodhana, it is I, Aswathama. I have won the war for you, not Karna. Open your eyes. I have forsaken glory to do what no Brahmin or warrior should. I set fire to their tents and killed them in their sleep – a shameful thing, but I did it for you, my friend, and for my father.” He was not sure the men he had killed were the Pandavas or their sons, but Suyodhana need not know that in his final moments. But the weight of the lie lay heavy on Aswathama’s heart.

“Ah, Aswathama, where...is Karna?” Suyodhana opened his eyes

“Karna is dead, killed by Arjuna. You gave him everything, but he betrayed you.”

“Karna could never betray me, or you...“

“Oh, Suyodhana, do not die now when we have won. Tell me what I did was right.”

“You have betrayed...
dharma,
Aswathama.”

“Suyodhana, I did it for you...to avenge you...”

“Aswathama...no...” Suyodhana was delirious and in pain, struggling to form words as his life ebbed away.

“I have lived for you, Suyodhana. I have lived for our country. Do not call me a traitor.” Aswathama threw his arms across Suyodhana’s inert body, trying hard to fight back his tears. “Don’t go, my friend. We have a country to rule, with justice, equality and prosperity for all. We have a dream to live. Do not go and leave me alone.”

“You are still my friend...” Suyodhana’s words were barely a whisper. Aswathama bent his ear to Suyodhana’s lips to hear. “Aswathama, you are my dearest friend...after Karna.”

“After Karna, Suyodhana?” Aswathama looked up. The eyes that had once burned with passion, were closed forever. He gently placed Suyodhana’s head on the wet ground. The Crown Prince of Hastinapura had reached the end of his star-crossed life. A plentitude of gifts and sorrow had been his in equal measure. How fearlessly he had believed in justice for all, how fiercely he had fought against caste, yet he was powerless before the frailties of human pride. There was no man Aswathama had loved more, yet his friend’s last words hurt him more than all the arrows of Kurukshetra.

“After Karna...” Karna the glorious, Karna the
Dharmaveera,
Karna the man who died for his friend. Poets would sing of the friendship between the Suta and the Prince. And the poor Brahmin would be a forgotten footnote in the history of great men. Aswathama, the despised, the cursed, the man who killed his enemies in their sleep. The Brahmin bit his lip, clutching his hair. His dream had ended in a curse. No one wanted him, neither his dead friend nor the country for which he had dared the cold heights of Gandhara. Neither past nor future belonged to him. He looked at the man for whom he had lived, lying dead at his feet, and broke into sobs. A noble Prince should not be lying in the mud like this. It did not matter that Suyodhana had considered Karna a better friend; for Aswathama, there was no one left. He lifted Suyodhana’s head onto his lap and hugged his friend’s cold body.

***

Far away, Bhishma still lay on his bed of arrows. Soon, the sighs of the patriarch of the Kurus were drowned by the wailing of thousands of women dragging themselves to the battlefield. Some were old, shrivelled with age and despair; some were young, at the prime of their lives, and for some, life had been about to blossom before the war had cruelly crushed them. Some carried babies in their arms; some had young children sobbing behind them. They were searching for the bodies of their dear ones. Shrieks of shock rent the air as mothers identified sons, widows found husbands, and sisters saw brothers lying headless, limbless, crushed by the wheels of
dharma.
As the lament of the women rose to the heedless sky, vultures feeding on carrion flapped their wings in anger and left. They perched on the leafless branches of trees and watched, impatience in their glowing eyes. Jackals scurried away carrying chunks of meat and flesh they had torn from the corpses.

Aswathama watched the scene with indifference. Life and death held no meaning for him now.

“There he is! Kill him!” Dhaumya’s voice was shrill with relief.

They had found him and the end was near. Aswathama’s warrior instincts made him alert. No, he would not give up. Kripa had said it right. It was better to surrender and work again patiently towards their goal. If they caught him now, they would kill him before he could negotiate a surrender. He had to reach Vyasa’s
ashram
quickly.

“Suyodhana, I have to leave you but I will not give up. Aswathama will prove I was always the better friend to you, not Karna.” Aswathama whispered to Suyodhana’s cold body. Gently laying the Prince’s head on the ground, he rose and took to his heels.

Dhaumya stood in his path. Aswathama swung his sword at the old Brahmin without breaking his stride, turning to ensure that Dhaumya lay writhing on the ground. He cursed when he saw the old man sitting dazed in the slush, surrounded by his disciples. The priest had escaped his sword by a hair’s breadth. Soldiers ran towards him, lances at the ready. Aswathama fled into the woods, his heart pounding against his ribs like a rabbit trapped in a snare.

***

Draupadi sat without shedding a tear. Yudhishtra tried to console her but felt overwhelmed himself by the loss of his son; his words lacked coherence and meaning. The five bodies were placed before Draupadi, unrecognisable and ghastly in death. Her sons seemed to accuse her, their eyes staring at her from blackened faces.

“Krishna Madhava, what is the use of winning this war when we have lost our sons? They have followed Abhimanyu to the abode of Yama. Is this our punishment for killing our sires and grandsires, Gurus and kin, through deceit? No, do not tell me about the inevitability of death and the immortality of the soul, Krishna. When one’s own sons are dead, such words offer no solace. They are consoling words to be uttered to others. Death is as real as life,” Yudhishtra lamented, hammering his forehead with his fist.

Krishna stood nearby, unable to find words to console the man who had become Emperor of Bharatavarsha just the previous day. Priests and other well-wishers stood in a huddle, not knowing what to do or say to console their Lord and the woman who had lost all her five sons in one night. The Pandava brothers stood alone, crushed by the weight of the tragedy.

Finally Yudhishtra stood up and called for his mother. Kunti arrived. She felt old and tired. She averted her eyes, not wanting to look at the charred visages of her once-handsome and vital grandsons. Dead. There was nothing left except death.

In a voice bereft of emotion, Yudhishtra asked his mother, “Who are these who lie stricken here by death, Mother?”

“Why do you torture me like this, Son?” Kunti asked, trying to suppress her rising sobs.

“Why were your grandsons, who had done no one any harm, punished like this, Mother?”

“It was their fate, Son...destiny...”

With a viciousness that startled the people around him, Yudhishtra shouted, “Fate? No, do not blame fate for this, Mother. Remember the night at Varanavata when we trapped five Nishadas and their mother and left them to the fire? They were innocent, like our sons, yet we sacrificed them quoting
karma
and
dharma.
Well, our
karma
has caught up with us. The flames that took the Nishadas have taken our sons, too.”

The priests coughed and cleared their throats. Dhaumya did not know what to say to Yudhishtra. All he had wanted was a King who would be putty in his hands, whom he could mould like a potter uses his wheel to shape a pot. He wondered whether he had instead got brittle wood that crumbled at the first touch.
“Dharma
is...” he began.

Draupadi stood up. “Forgive me, Guru, for interrupting your wise words.” She gave a bow that was an affront in its elaborate humility.

Turning away from the fulminating Guru, Draupadi said to her husbands,” I want the man who killed my sons to be brought before me, dead or alive. I will not allow the funeral of my sons to take place until the cursed Brahmin has been dragged here.”

Yudhishtra tried to speak, but Draupadi raised her hands. “Indulge me, King, one last time. This is a mother’s request.”

Arjuna and Bhima did not wait. They ran through the crowd that had come to offer condolences and gawk at the misery of the royal household. A chariot halted before them. Bhima took over the reins, from the charioteer. Arjuna jumped in just as Nakula and Sahadeva came running, carrying Arjuna’s weapons, and climbed into the chariot as well. The four brothers were ready to hunt down the killer of their sons. The chariot sped past the endless line of carts, horses, donkeys and bullocks carrying the dead and maimed. Hundreds of foot soldiers dragged themselves alongside the wounded. Bhima yelled at the bedraggled survivors of the great war to make way.

The chariot turned off onto a rough forest path. As they swerved and swayed along the winding path that led to the hills, Bhima wondered why there had been no fuss when his eldest son, Khatotkacha, had been killed, or why Arjuna had not chased after the priests who had sacrificed Iravan. Then he shrugged his shoulders and whipped the horses. It was not for him to think, his duty was to do. He would find that Brahmin and crush his skull with his bare hands for killing his son; more importantly, for causing Draupadi pain. Aswathama was cursed and would pay a heavy price.

*****

77
   
J
AYA

WHEN ASWATHAMA REACHED VYASA’S
ashram,
the morning dew still clung to the blades of grass. The air felt fresh after the previous day’s rain and the world looked as beautiful as a woman after a bath. A gentle breeze carried the sound of chanting and the aroma of a sacrificial fire. Smoke rose over the
ashram,
dancing in the wind and rising to heaven, carrying the offerings of mortal men to the immortals who had no needs. Aswathama reached the place where deer lived in harmony with tigers, and snakes with mice, covered in blood, reeking of murder and sin. Vyasa eyed Drona’s son without pausing his chanting of the Vedic
mantras.
Aswathama collapsed near the sacrificial fire. Once the morning
homa
was completed, Vyasa asked his disciples to fetch herbs and water to clean the Brahmin.

When Aswathama awoke, he was lying on a reed mat. For a moment he was confused, uncertain where he was. Vyasa’s gentle eyes were looking at him. Aswathama tried to sit upright but the sage gently pushed him down again, saying, “Rest, my son.”

“No, I am a sinner. I killed sleeping men. I have committed a great sin,” cried Aswathama. “The blood of innocents is on my hands.”

“Know that you are neither the slayer nor the slain. You are just an instrument of destiny. Their time had come.”

Vyasa’s words did not console Aswathama. He touched the gem on his headcloth and wept. His father had been right; the accursed gem had turned him into a sinner. For a fleeting moment, he was amused by the thought. How could a gem be blamed for his folly and sin? He heard someone moving outside his hut; his warrior instincts surfaced and made him search for his sword. It had vanished.

“This is a place made sacred by thought and sacrifice, son. Here, there is no room for weapons. Your weapons have been taken far from the
ashram,”
said Vyasa, watching Aswathama.

The Brahmin felt vulnerable without his weapons. When had he ever been without them since his boyhood days? He was tempted to argue that his enemies were at his heels, but one look at Vyasa’s dark and lined face silenced the words on his lips. Aswathama drifted into the sleep of the damned. When the sun had baked the earth and was leaving the sky, Aswathama woke to the distant sound of an approaching chariot.

Vyasa sat cross-legged, singing verses in a melodious voice. His chief disciples, Vaishampyana and Jaimini, sat before him, scribbling whatever the sage sang on palm leaves. The verses were not from the Vedas, Aranyakas or Upanishads, but they nevertheless sounded familiar. Then it struck Aswathama that Vyasa was singing the story of the Kuru dynasty. He was singing of Drona, his father, and how he arrived at the palace of Hastinapura with his wife and little son. As Aswathama listened, a sadness beyond words descended on him. How different it could all have been, he thought. Through misty eyes, he looked at the sage and then blinked unbelievingly. Who was sitting near Vyasa, scribbling faster than his two disciples? He had an elephant face and pot belly. Was it Ganesha, son of Mahadeva? The God of wisdom and auspicious beginnings? Aswathama blinked again and the vision disappeared. Perhaps it was only the hallucinations of a tired mind. There were no beginnings left, auspicious or otherwise, for Aswathama. He awaited his end.