The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 (27 page)

Over time kingship too had become less irksome but he had made it a point not to let it overwhelm his inner simplicity. He was known among his people as a just and generous king, a reputation that he had earned by never denying his humble origins. Yet, in the dark silence of the night, as he lay under silken sheets on a gem-studded bed of gold and wood, he admitted to himself that he hung on to his confused sense of identity, the contradictions, for a reason – neither was the truth. He was, by birth, neither the king of Anga nor the son of a charioteer. He was more. Far more.

In the aftermath of Dharma Yudhisthir’s fall Vasusena had become a less tormented man. His wife had declared him positively congenial to live with, and for the first time in past years he found himself forming a strong bond with his son, Vrishasena. He did not want to admit it, but he felt that he resented the world around him less now that Syoddhan held the reins of power. He was a man Vasusena respected, loved as a brother and was proud to serve. Dharma had deserved none of those affections.

And Panchali?

Vasusena had never quite forgotten his humiliation at Panchali’s wedding contest decades ago, not even despite the explanations and evidence Syoddhan had subsequently offered to suggest that they had both been drugged and so compelled to fail. Since that day, he had let his hatred and disgust for Dharma and his brothers flow over to Panchali. She had become, in his mind, the symbol of all that had been wrongfully taken from him and handed to an undeserving, incompetent man like Dharma. If she had married Partha, or even a good man like Bhim, Vasusena would have made his peace with it. But no. It was Dharma who was recognized as Pandu’s eldest son, declared as heir to the Kuru throne, married to Panchali and finally elevated to the role of Emperor. A man who had probably never held a sword the way it was meant to be held, who knew nothing of consecrating its sacred blade with the blood of his enemies. Dharma was nothing. What had happened to him was well deserved and Vasusena coaxed himself into feeling proud of his role in seeing the man fall.

With a muted growl, he spit on the sandy floor of the forge, earning him a disapproving look from the young man who was working on a sword under Devala’s critical eye.

‘Show me that,’ he commanded the youth. With a glance at his master, who nodded, the apprentice complied.

Vasusena took the tongs the apprentice held out, the red-hot blade in its embrace. He held the blade up at eye level and looked it over before returning it to the youth. ‘You’re striking it on the wrong edge. If you keep hammering at it here,’ he pointed, ‘you won’t make it keener. You will only cause more stress down the centre.’

The apprentice regarded him, sceptical, not convinced that the king knew what he was talking about. He snapped to attention as Devala shot him an angry look. ‘He’s right, you idiot. I shall make sure that when war comes, that blade finds its way to you. Then, when it breaks on the battlefield, you might learn the meaning of respect.’

Vasusena chuckled and moved away. Devala followed him. The two men made their way out of the large, bustling forge and emerged into the sunlight. An attendant came up bearing a large silver basin filled with rosewater for Vasusena to refresh himself.

Devala watched him with open curiosity as he wiped off the sweat from his brow and chest with a cloth dipped in the rosewater. ‘You know your blades.’

‘As does every good warrior. You can’t quite use a sword unless you know how it is made, how it is meant to kill.’

‘I think it’s more than that, Vasusena. There’s a rumour back at Hastina that you were trained by the Jamadagnis, the best of the Firewrights. Is that true?’

‘You mean the best of your kind, Devala?’ Vasusena retorted.

Devala hesitated, but Vasusena went on. ‘Did you expect me to believe that anyone else was capable of setting up a forge such as this one, and the many more like it throughout the Anga-Kashi-Kosala regions?’

Devala laughed. ‘All right then, let us speak as men should. You trained under Bhargava Rama, didn’t you? I must point out that that would explain how Anga became what you just referred to as the rather expansive Anga-Kashi-Kosala region.’

‘I did. It seemed a good idea at that time.’

‘To conquer the east?’

‘To train under the Firewrights. I was a very young man when it happened. I’m older now, if not simply old, and hopefully the wiser for it.’

‘You regret it?’ Devala asked.

‘Not, not regret. But…let’s just say that I went to him for the wrong reasons – rage, ambition, a need to prove who I was. Or, to be more precise, to prove to myself that I was indeed worthy of the truth.’

‘And the truth was?’

‘None of your concern,’ Vasusena snapped. He added, ‘No offence.’

Devala held up his hands. ‘None taken.’ In a bid to change the topic, he said, ‘We need more guards around the forges, Vasusena.’

Vasusena frowned. ‘I thought the whole point of placing the forges in the middle of these godforsaken woods was that no one would know of their existence. Still, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be careful. I’ll ask my commander to send out more contingents as soon as we get back. They should be here by tomorrow evening.’

‘Good. I, too, plan to leave right away, but I think the men we have will do till the reinforcements get here.’

‘You’re not coming back to the palace?’

‘No. I need to go to the other forge to oversee those new arrowheads. The last batch was not etched deep enough to hold sufficient poison.’

Vasusena mulled over the observation. ‘You really think there will be a war, Devala, like you told that young one back there? I’d say Dharma is getting quite used to a life of idle retirement. Why still talk of war?’

‘With all due respect, Vasusena, I said nothing about a war against Dharma. It took us more than five years to set up these forges and a few more to train the men who work in them. But since that has happened, your domains have grown nearly twice in size, have they not? You are next only to your dearest friend Syoddhan in stature and might. Even Jayadrath, I hear, is often referred to as the Vasusena of the west. Surely, it is too early for us to get complacent. I don’t expect effusive gratitude, but…’

‘It is deserved. Once again, I’m sorry if I offended you.’ With a polite nod, Vasusena climbed into the waiting carriage. He waved as it set off in a gentle trundle and then settled back against the cushions, enjoying the cool breeze.

Devala wondered abstractedly how such a genial person could turn into a self-obsessed, arrogant man the instant he set foot in Hastina. Deciding that it was none of his concern, he let his thoughts wander to other things as he continued to watch the small contingent till it was out of sight. After that, Devala made his way back into the forge.

5

SHIKANDIN LET THE TENDER BRANCH FALL BACK INTO PLACE
without a sound and stepped further back into the thicket in which he had concealed himself. He stayed within earshot of the forge as he planned his next step, trying to decide between attacking at once and waiting until Devala had left. The primal temptation to avenge himself against Devala had only grown stronger with every passing day of these last years. Still, Shikandin had the patience of a tree. He decided on the second option. Much as he would have liked to kill and gut Devala right there, it made more sense to let him go and then track him to the other forge he had mentioned. That way Shikandin would save valuable time in finding the other workshop and razing it to the ground.

His decision made, Shikandin retreated deeper into the forest till he found a tree with low, overhanging branches. He settled himself under their cover, intending to rest till moonrise. A new weariness had crept into his being, and Shikandin did not understand if it was the natural effect of age or the more subtle but dangerous frustration of fighting what felt like a never-ending battle on his own.

It had been easier in the initial years since Dharma’s exile. Devala had begun, quite logically, by trying to rebuild the old forges that had been left in the outer reaches of the Kashi kingdoms, the main ones having been destroyed by Shikandin and Govinda during the imperial conquest. The old forges that remained were already weak and in many cases, not easily usable and it had been a fairly easy task for Shikandin to create problems for Devala without attracting attention to himself. The newer constructions, such as the one not too far away, required more careful planning. It was not that Shikandin was afraid of injury or death. But, if he were caught alive, or if other evidence were presented to link him to these acts, it would not bode well for his father and his siblings. Syoddhan’s cronies would insist that this was treachery, a crime that was not only punishable with the traitor’s execution but was also adequate justification for annexing the said traitor’s territory. That was not a risk Shikandin could take. On pain of death, he would have to keep his involvement in the destruction of these forges, and the other sundry attacks on Devala’s men and materials, a secret.

It was a slow, tedious effort. But then so was building forges and workshops. In all, it had settled into a languorous rhythm of creation and destruction that Shikandin had got used to. Feeling reassured, he turned his mind to more trivial thoughts, stirring only when the smell of the forest told him that it was night.

The guard, a capable Anga soldier, neither heard nor saw the attack. In fact, the man died swiftly, his last sentiment one of surprise that a wild animal possessed the ability to strike in such precise strokes to sever a man’s neck.

Shikandin rolled the soldier’s body under some bushes and went on to his next target. The guards were stationed in a circle around the forge, with an additional sentry constantly on the move, making impeccably timed rounds. It was, Shikandin noted, far too predictable to be effective, and it did not take him very long to bring down the eight guards and the sentry. Within the forge, he had observed, there was just one guard stationed by the door. Still, there remained the possibility that the men working within might offer resistance as well. Shikandin had already spent half the day trying to choose between warning the workers, who were innocent, even unwilling participants, and treating them as the enemy, undoubtedly the safer option. Finally, he made up his mind.

Propping the dead sentry up by the eyehole in the door, Shikandin knocked hard on it. The guard within looked out, exclaimed loudly and made the mistake of releasing the locking mechanism. Before he could realize his mistake, Shikandin had him in an arm-lock and held a dagger to his throat for added effect. The guard offered no resistance as they went down the stairs into the underground cavern that formed the main area of the forge.

The structure had been dug out of the earth and the mud walls had the fragrant moisture of fertile earth, that could still yield verdure if allowed to. Shikandin supposed he could get the cavern to collapse in on itself… But then how would he get out? He had much more to do, and dying here was hardly a worthy sacrifice. First things first, he reminded himself, as he walked into the heart of the forge.

‘If you don’t want this man hurt, get out now!’ he ordered the astounded workers within. They did not look very sympathetic toward the guard, which made Shikandin all the more glad of his decision to let them escape. But before he could say another word, the workers were talking animatedly in their own, accented dialect, gesturing to Shikandin and to their own necks. Only then did he realize that the white metal beads he wore blazed with a life of their own by the light of the forge.

One of the workmen stepped forward. ‘What do you want with this forge?’

‘That’s none of your concern. Get out. Now.’

The man moved, as if to comply, but stopped and looked around at his companions. ‘We can destroy this for you. We can make sure it will never be of any use to anyone, again.’

Something in his eyes made Shikandin believe him. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but quietly. No explosions.’

‘We are not fools. We know a true Firewright when we see one. Unlike that liar Devala…’

Shikandin started to protest at the declaration, but then decided it would be best to say nothing at all. He nodded, and began to back out through the doorway.

‘Wait!’ the man commanded. ‘Leave the guard behind. He has been especially good to us. We would like to repay the favour.’

At this, the guard began to scream and struggle, leaving no doubt about the nature of his kindness towards the workers. Still, he could not extricate himself from Shikandin’s grip. ‘Please…Please don’t… Please take me with you…or kill me. Please, I beg you.’

In response, Shikandin shoved him roughly to the floor and made his way up the stairs, into the clean air of the night.

He stayed hidden in the forest till well past daybreak and then went back to the site of the forge. All that remained was scattered debris and a small but deep pond that had not been there before. The workmen had used the underwater source that had served to cool and power the forge to submerge it. Shikandin saw their tracks leading away from the place, the footprints telling him that their departure had been slow and celebratory. He picked up a fallen branch and used it to muddle up the signs they had left behind so that they would not be followed. Then he set out for home.

As tired as Shikandin was, he could not help but smile as he led his horse out of the dark thicket and into the large glade that ran all the way up to the banks of a gushing stream. Right at the river’s edge was the place he had called home for the last many years. Truly, it was home to him more than Kampilya had ever been. The village consisted of a simple cluster of hutments, a stone-lined pond that was constantly replenished with fresh water from the river and a small patch of cultivated land. In itself the settlement meant nothing and if ever one asked its inhabitants where they lived, they would name their tribe as their home. No matter how many times they moved, Shikandin found that its essence always remained the same. It was home, and he belonged there.

A distant shout went up as the children of the village noticed him. They stopped their play and ran up to greet him. Shikandin let his grin widen at the sight of the bedraggled bunch. For all his pain and weariness, he had not forgotten to pick fruits and berries for them. The youngest of the crowd, a girl, squealed as he picked her up, swung her around and placed her in the saddle. Others, too, began clamouring for a ride and he obliged, lifting two more of the smallest ones on to his horse’s back. The older children ran around him, asking questions and telling him news of the village in the scattered and unpredictable way that he found so delightful. As a group, they made their way towards the village.