AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (8 page)

A strange fear gripped him. Would he stand ruined by a Suta? He tried to ignore it. It was not the fear of his country disintegrating but of the Suta winning, where he, the illustrious warrior of the Kurus, the Kshatriya of Kshatriyas, had failed, which filled his heart now.

Below his windows he could hear Karna’s army getting ready to march South. The Grand Regent sighed. Disaster loomed over Hastinapura; the country he had built with his blood and sweat would disintegrate. From where had that accursed Suta come into Suyodhana’s life? As slumber refused to close his eyes, the prayer that lay like a barb in his heart was, ‘May the Suta die...’

Suddenly Bhishma remembered Krishna. Had the wily Yadava been with Yudhishtra, the boy would not have committed such blunders. He might not even have accepted the invitation to the game of dice. As sleep finlly spread its mantle over him, Bhishma wondered where the Yadava had vanished.

***

Unknown to Bhishma, Krishna was facing grave danger in the unforgiving desert, on his way to Dwaraka. He had halted a few feet from where Takshaka lay in wait. Every instinct in his body cried out to him not to proceed further. He pulled at the reins of his horse and barked at his followers to halt. The cavalry ranks rippled like a whip at the sudden stoppage as the soldiers tried deperately to control their whining and stamping mounts. The smell of horse dung and urine soon filled the air. Krishna dismounted and examined the sand. There were many footprints, more than there should have been in this desolate place of shifting sand dunes and bushy shrubs. He could see a cluster of boulders in the distance. How many men could hide there? Whoever had selected it as an ambush spot, knew his job. Could it be Takshaka or Vasuki?

From behind the rocks, the eyes of the Nagas watched the Yadava army, their arrows ready in their bows.

*****

5
   
G
ANDHARA
B
ECKONS

THE FRIENDS STOOD HUDDLED TOGETHER
in the final moment of parting. Their pain was too great to be allayed by words. Karna hugged each one in turn. Aswathama watched quietly as his friend stood in silent prayer, facing east, though it was too early for the sky to have lost her cloak of darkness.

Mounting his horse, Karna blew his conch as a signal to move out. The ranks of armed men jerked like a giant reptile awakening from sleep. They soon broke into a trot and in a few moments vanished in a cloud of dust, leaving only the odour of horse and elephant dung.

A vast emptiness filled Aswathama’s mind and heart. ‘Karna, will I ever see you again?’ he wondered as he swished his sword at a bush. Leaves fell around him, mutilated. He turned towards Suyodhana, a question on his lips, but stopped when he saw the expression on his friend’s face. In the pale moonlight he could see tears glistening in Suyodhana’s eyes, their usual burning intensity quenched. ‘Karna, if you do not return, how will we bear it? How will Suyodhana go on?’ Aswathama felt tears fill his own eyes. No, it was not jealousy. ‘I cannot be jealous of my best friend going to war.’ He swished his sword again, lacerating a shrub, but the feeling remained.

Jayadratha had moved his pieces carefully. He had not bothered to ask his men whether they were ready to face the might of the Confederate. They were on his payroll and it was their
dharma
to die for him. But he had asked Suyodhana for one thing in return for his men – the promise that in the event of Suyodhana leaving Hastinapura for any reason, he would be made Regent Crown Prince for the period. He had mitigated the absurdity of his demand by saying it was his sister Sushala’s wish. When Aswathama had protested, Suyodhana had dismissed his fears and promised Jayadratha that his sister’s whim would be satisfied if the occasion arose. Satisfied with the bargain, Jayadratha had stood away from the three friends, watching their sentimental parting with contemptuous amusement. Now, as the night grew gray with age, Jayadratha, standing lost in his own thoughts, felt weary. “My men have marched off to face their destinies, yet I remain standing here. But the time will come, my friends, when we too, must march.” So saying, he walked off, the first hint of day touching his shadowy form.

Birds had started their hurried chatter in the bushes and the blades of grass were turning saffron at their tips. A myna fluttered its little wings and landed nearby, looked at them and flew away. A single myna, an ill omen; Suyodhana tried to push away thoughts of death and prayed Karna would return victorious. The two friends stood in silence, their emotions too deep for words.

“I wish to go to Gandhara and bring back that son of a bitch,” Aswathama finally said, and waited for Suyodhana’s response. But the Prince continued gazing in the direction Karna had vanished. “Suyodhana? I am going to Gandhara. I need an army right away.” Silence greeted his words. ‘Doesn’t he even care? I was his childhood friend long before he met Karna.’ Heart sore, Aswathama turned to leave.

Suyodhana grabbed his friend’s hand. “You too want to leave me alone, Aswathama?”

The Brahmin swallowed hard and licked his dry lips. After a long pause, he said, “I want to get that devil, Suyodhana. I must go to Gandhara. Allow me to do so. Give me some men so I can flush out Shakuni and Durjaya from their caves.”

“There are no men for Suyodhana, Aswathama. I am the pariah, the untouchable. If Karna loses, I will remain so and the kingdom will go to that self-righteous Yudhishtra. The Grand Regent will see to it. The alternative is even worse. If by some miracle Karna wins, I will be known as the ingrate who forced the Pitamaha to resign.”

Aswathama remained silent. ‘What am I in the larger order of things? The court jester? The affable and witty Brahmin who appears in stories and folk tales? The funny clown, the side-kick of the hero? All my life my father has stifled my growth, and now my friend is doing the same thing. I am a better warrior than either Arjuna or Karna. Karna the hero was born the day the princes graduated. They showed their prowess and the crowd adored them all. My father basked in the glory of his students, until Karna came and spoilt everything. They are all part of the legend now, but no one remembers Aswathama. I was just the priest who mumbled the
mantras
at a Suta’s coronation.’ Aswathama kicked a pebble in disgust. He turned his back, lest the Prince read his mind.

“Aswathama? You too want to leave me and go in search of danger?” Suyodhana asked, placing a hand on Aswathama’s shoulder. “Why can we not go together in search of my uncle?”

Aswathama shook his head.

“I wish you all success, my friend, but I have no men to spare. Nor can I go with you to share in the glory. It is your journey. Go, Aswathama, if you want to, though it breaks my heart to say so. Who else will I lose today?” Suyodhana looked up at the fingers of dawn stretching across the sky.

“I am sorry, Prince, but I have to go to prove myself,” Aswathama managed to say.

Suyodhana looked around. The Captain and his group of soldiers, who had come to arrest Karna a few hours ago, were huddled near the fort gate. He called to them and the Captain immediately ran up and bowed to the Crown Prince. His soldiers ran up behind him. There were about sixty men. When Suyodhana asked for volunteers, they hesitated. But when the Prince appealed to their duty to the motherland, thirty-five of them, and Captain Mahaveera, volunteered to accompany Aswathama on his dangerous mission.

Aswathama felt a pang of guilt. Why was he doing this? Why was he taking these men to their certain deaths? For what? Ego?

As though reading his mind, Suyodhana said, “Aswathama, I have done what I can. Some, or perhaps all of them, will die, but they are going with you because they love their country more than their lives. I am sure you will be a worthy leader.”

“Suyodhana, among all your friends, I am the only one who has not earned your friendship. Allow me to do so.”

“You talk nonsense, my friend,” Suyodhana said, embracing Aswathama one last time. “Aswathama, I should not ask this of you, yet I must. If you see my Uncle Shakuni, spare his life. I want to look into his face and ask him some questions before I decide what to do with him.”

‘What the...’ Aswathama pulled away from Suyodhana, shocked at the request. It would take all his self-control not to kill that Mlecha if he chanced upon him.

The Crown Prince had already started walking towards the palace. Aswathama did not have the heart to tell him what he thought of Shakuni. Instead, he turned to the Captain. “We will assemble here in an hour. Let the men say their farewells to their families.”

“Sir.”

Aswathama hurried home, ignoring the comments of some of the soldiers that their families lived in distant villages. He hated to hear about their poor relations, who waited for the small amounts the soldiers sent back once a year. He could not bear to hear the stories of the young wives, old mothers, little girls and boys, who would be waiting for them to come home. He did not want to hear about their peasant fathers who hid their fears by boasting about their sons. If he listened, he was afraid he would never be able to take them to Gandhara with him.

When he reached home it was already dawn. He went to the well, drew water, and poured it over his head, enjoying the slithering cold as the water rushed down his body. A breeze caressed him with its ticklish fingers and he shivered with joy. It was going to be very cold in Gandhara, so cold that it snowed. Snow! How would it look and feel? He had never seen such a cold country. How did people survive there? He smiled to himself, trying not to think of the fate of the soldiers waiting for him. No, it would be a grand adventure. “Shakuni, I am coming for you, Mlecha!” he said aloud as he ran towards his room to dress.

His mother was drawing
rangoli
patterns in the courtyard, her fingertips white with rice powder. He could hear the tinkle of a bell from the prayer room – his father would be at his
puja.
Aswathama stopped near his mother, the water dripping from his body making patterns on the cow dung floor. His mother looked up. Her lips were set together and he could sense her anger. He knew she was angered by what had happened in the Sabha. He felt ashamed and shifted his feet, bracing to face her words. But she said nothing, merely looked at him and pushed away the strand of hair that had fallen onto her forehead with the back of her hand. He wanted to reach out and dust the white rice powder from her hair – or was it age that had made her hair grey?

“Ma, I am going to Gandhara.”

The bowl of rice powder fell from his mother’s hand, covering the beautiful patterns on the floor. The
rangoli
blurred as Aswathama felt tears sting his eyes and his chest tighten with a pain that had no name. He fell at his mother’s feet, not wanting to face her. “Ma, give me your blessing before I go.”

He could feel her hands on his hair. Her shaking fingers ran over his face and a few tears fell on his shoulder. But he did not answer her frantic questions, afraid of his answers. He ran to his room and gathered his weapons. Swords, bows, quiver of arrows, dagger – he bundled them with some clothes. Then he donned his armour and walked out.

His father was still in the
puja
room; his mother sat beside him, her eyes closed. Aswathama dropped his bundle on the floor and walked up to them. The dancing figure of Shiva stared back at him, magnificent in its poise and grace. Aswathama fell to the floor in obeisance, his hands folded over his head. The familiar aroma of incense and camphor almost made him cry. It was the smell of his childhood. He had sat with his father and learned the
mantras
from him. How he had resented it then, wanting only to dash out to play with his friends. Now he yearned for those days to return. His mother had not spoken a word after her first flood of questions. He touched her feet in
pranaam,
but she did not stir. His father sat cross-legged in meditation, his face serene and calm. Aswathama touched his father’s feet. ‘Bless me, father. I am going to Gandhara,’ he said in his mind. Surely, his father would say something to him, bless him and wish him success? Would he have behaved this way if he were Arjuna?

But Drona did not move. ‘Enough of this!’ Aswathama thought sternly as he picked up his bundle and left the room. He lingered at the threshold, running his fingers over the doorframe. He might never see his home again. The swords in his bundle rattled.

His mother came rushing out. Her muffled sobs pierced his heart. But it was his father’s voice that almost made him turn back. “Stop crying, woman. Nothing will happen to him. He is the greatest warrior I have ever known. He is Drona’s son.”

Aswathama wanted to throw down his bundle and rush to hug his father as he had done as a child. ‘Father, do you truly mean it? Am I better than your Arjuna?’ He wanted to feel his father’s hands on his head in blessing. Suddenly the wish to go anywhere vanished. He wanted to remain in Hastinapura as his father’s son. But the smiling face of Shakuni rose before his eyes and the young Brahmin raised his bowed head. ‘Father, if I return alive, I hope I will have the courage to tell you what I feel – that no son has ever loved his father more than Aswathama. But for now…Gandhara is waiting.’