The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (35 page)

12

A FRENZIED, FEVERISH EXCITEMENT RAN THROUGH DHARMA
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camp as the armies readied for the next morning’s battle. With Bhisma gone, there was, many believed, a chance at victory. Now and then, some group of soldiers or the other would take up a victory chant in Shikandin’s name and drink to him around the campfire.

Dharma had first insisted that discipline be kept, and liquor be forbidden that night, but Dhrstyadymn had assured him that the gain in morale was worth the chance of a solider or two getting hopelessly drunk. Eleven days had passed since the war began, and they were down to a little less than a quarter of their strength. Morale was now paramount. And the man who had revived that hope, who could drive it higher, was missing.

‘I can’t find him anywhere,’ Dhrstyadymn reported, walking into the command tent.

‘Me neither,’ Yudhamanyu replied. ‘He’s not with Kshatradharman and Uttamaujas.’ Turning back to Panchali, he added, ‘This is so unlike Father.’ Panchali smiled. As with Shikandin, she too had not yet had her fill of listening to the boy address his father with such familiarity and respect.

Dharma, however, had no time to be pleased or amused. ‘What’s wrong with him? Where could he have gone? The men are clamouring for a glimpse of him, and he’s gone missing!’

Panchali asked Dhrstyadymn, ‘Have you tried Father’s tent?’

‘The King’s tent? But why would Shikandin go there…?’

Panchali stood up. ‘I’ll find him.’

Panchali walked over to Dhrupad’s cluster of tents, slowing down as she heard voices from inside. Rather than intrude on the conversation, she decided to wait for an opportune moment. Hardly had she perched herself on a wooden supply trunk a few feet away when Shikandin stormed out Dhrupad’s tent, angrier than she had ever seen him. Before she could say anything, her brother’s long strides had taken him out of the camp and towards the fringes of the surrounding forests. Panchali ran behind him.

‘Shikandin!’ she called out, as she followed him to a small grassy plain. ‘Shikandin, wait!’

He finally turned around. ‘What’re you doing here, Panchali?’ he snapped. ‘Go back. Leave me alone!’

Panchali did not reply but continued to make her way towards her brother till she stood in front of him, panting for breath. ‘You…you walk fast, you know,’ she gasped. ‘Really fast! Hai! I wonder how any woman would agree to go for a stroll with you, Agraja! No wonder your romances die out before they begin – it must be far too tiring for the poor things…’

Shikandin managed a chuckle. Panchali saw how deeply hurt her brother was that he did not laugh as he was wont to. ‘Talk to me, Shikandin. Please?’ she urged him.

‘What’s there to talk about, Panchali?’

‘I’m neither blind, nor deaf, Shikandin. Besides, I know – Subadra told me. And, I also heard what the Grandsire said to you, earlier. …’

‘All my life, Panchali,’ Shikandin slowly began, ‘I’ve been used to being the one who’s wrong, the one who’s a disappointment. It’s something I don’t talk about or pay attention to anymore. I just don’t understand why, this once, it bothers me… I’ve always been an outcast, a misfit…’

‘No!’

‘Do you remember your childhood, Panchali?’

She fell silent. In all these years, not once had Shikandin spoken about her past, about the fact that she was not his sister by blood. A pang of guilt, of regret, flashed through her as she realized that she had opened that door with her own deed, her own barter with the Secret Keeper. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Then imagine,’ he said, reaching up to touch the beads around his neck. ‘Imagine being a child, being made aware that you are somehow different, even if you don’t understand it. Imagine growing up hating yourself because you are a shame to your family, and then hating yourself more because your family is the biggest cause of your shame.’ Shikandin paused, gritting his teeth to contain a pain he could not name. ‘Then, you’ll know what I feel. Then you’ll…’

As the weariness and despondence of years hit him like a physical blow, he slid down to his knees, slamming his clenched fists into the ground. ‘The old saying goes that the child must pay for the sins of the father,’ Shikandin said. ‘I’d reconciled myself to the fact that Yudhamanyu hated me, as I’ve hated Father – I had no right to expect otherwise. But then, when you and Dhrstyadymn… I’ve wondered for so long now; since the day you were married to Dharma. What if, Panchali? What if my errors, my sins now weigh over you? Where does this end? Perhaps, if I’d been a better son, a better brother, a better man, you would not have suffered the way you have. Can you forgive me…?’

Panchali knelt down and settled her elder brother’s head on to her lap, as though he were a child. Shikandin did not protest. He curled his body tight and let the tears come, the way he had not in all his life. Panchali wrapped her arms protectively around him, wiped away his tears, combed his long hair with her fingers and rocked him till he fell into a deep sleep. She stayed awake, gazing alternately at Shikandin’s worry-worn face and the night sky above them till the morning star rose in the east, warning them of the impending dawn. Then, gently, she shook her brother awake.

Shikandin awoke and sat up, for a while retaining the blissful equanimity he had found in sleep. It was replaced quickly by the throbbing memory of what had happened and what awaited him still.

Panchali said, ‘You look very handsome when you’re asleep, you know. Hardly like the wild creature you really are.’

Unwilling to break that fragile happiness that they shared, Shikandin remained silent, but as a tip of flame breached the horizon, the words slipped from his mouth: ‘Who am I, Panchali?’

Panchali considered his question. ‘You are my brother, Shikandin,’ she answered. ‘You are my brother, but you have cared for me and protected me as a father would his daughter. You are a warrior, a great warrior who brought down the mighty Bhisma in a battle that you know in your heart to be fair. You are the son of King Dhrupad, Dhrstyadymn’s brother and Govinda Shauri’s friend. You are a prince of the Panchala kingdom, a prince loved by his people. But above all that you are Shikandin, a man who dared speak for the voiceless when no one else would… You’ve dared to do what was right, no matter what it cost you and…’

Shikandin placed a quick kiss on his sister’s forehead, cutting her short. Panchali looked up at him, willing him to see the love and respect she had for him. Then she was back on her feet and pulling at his hand. ‘Now stop lazing around and get up. There’s more battle to be done, and our armies need their bravest warriors to lead them.’

Shikandin stood up. Arms linked, the two siblings walked back to the camp, cheered by the sight of the bright banners fluttering in the wind.

13

SYODDHAN WALKED INTO HIS COMMAND TENT, CONTEMPLATING
the insignificant decorations and trappings that he had not noticed before, for no other reason than to avoid the obvious void left by Bhisma’s fall. Yet, there was only so long that the inevitable could be ignored. He stared at the ornate silver-white throne that had, upon his command, been brought all the way from Hastina, the sole ceremonial seat in the otherwise functionally appointed Command Tent. It stood at the head of the arrangement, the metal gleaming gold in the first light of the sun.

Even though this was his war, Syoddhan had spared no effort in letting everyone know how much he respected the Grandsire, Bhisma Devavrata. It had been a reasoned decision as well as an emotional one, for Bhisma’s support was the ultimate endorsement of morality and fairness that anyone in Aryavarta could wish for. Bhisma had not only legitimized Syoddhan’s war, but he had also made Syoddhan feel justified, empowered, and complete in a way that he had longed to feel since childhood. Now Syoddhan realized that in their own ways grandfather and grandson had cared about each other, after all.

What next? What do I do? Where does this path lead? Guide me, Grandfather…
He rested a wistful hand on the silver throne.
What if more loss, more pain is all that lies ahead. Perhaps we should think about peace…

The notion stirred anger, a heated rage as red as the blood that had covered the fallen Bhisma, soaked into his silver mane.
A warrior does not fear loss, he does not fear pain. I cannot let Bhisma’s death go in vain!
Yet, Syoddhan could not completely dismiss the doubt he felt, as though he was no longer sure what he really fought for.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder. ‘You must choose,’ Dron’s deep voice sounded in his ear.

Syoddhan turned to face his teacher. ‘Is there really a choice, Acharya?’

‘There is always a choice. We both know that Bhisma loved Dharma and his brothers just as he does you and yours. Yet, he chose to fight for you for because he believed there was a principle at stake; a principle you too believe in, do you not?’

‘I did and I still do. Dharma’s terms, trivial as they might have been in form, would have served to undermine the very system that Aryavarta is built upon.’

‘And if those terms have changed?’

Syoddhan said, ‘Perhaps it is time we find out.’

‘How?’ Dron asked. ‘I mean, even if we send a negotiator to Dharma, it will be Govinda’s words that come out of Dharma’s mouth.’

‘Govinda, Govinda. I don’t know whether it is amazing or terrifying what one man can bring an entire realm to. What is more irksome is that I cannot, for the life of me, understand what he wants.’

‘It isn’t all that complicated,’ Asvattama said, as he walked into the tent. The other commanders, including Dussasan, Vasusena, Kritavarman were with him. Each one took their usual seat in the tent, but not before letting their eyes drift to Bhisma’s empty throne. Syoddhan remained standing, a hand still on the silver chair. But for that singular absence, their council of war was complete. He directed his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘You were saying, Asvattama…?’

‘We assume that Govinda has some ulterior motive towards which he drives all events. Yes, that does seem typical of his character as we’ve always known it; except that he is no longer the same man, is he?’

Dron was not pleased with his son’s candid speech. ‘Get to the point, Asvattama,’ he snapped.

‘What if all Govinda wants is what he says he wants.’

‘Which is?’

‘To change the way things are. To change the realm’s reliance on hierarchy and Divine Order. We assumed that his words are mere rhetoric, and that his intent is to seize power for himself. But what if he means what he says?’

‘That would make him a bigger fool than you!’ Dron snapped.

‘With all due respect, Father, that may be the beauty of his plan. We find it inconceivable, unthinkable, for we are taught to believe that the world is immutable but human beings are not; that the story remains the same but the players change. The Wheel of Time spins: there is beginning and there is end. But why does the Wheel of Time spin? Is it some divine force that propels it? Or is that force humanity, people in search of change and a better way of life? I do not say that Govinda is right, but I do think that he is honest when he claims that he wishes to see a different way of life prevail in Aryavarta. His demand, that the ouster of Dharma Yudhisthir be nullified, is not about making Dharma the Emperor once again as it is about saying, loud and clear to all in Aryavarta, that there are basic dignities, a fundamental freedom over the self that no one can control, usurp, trade…or gamble away, no matter what their authority and their place in the hierarchy.’

The observation left the others stunned, more for the fervour of Asvattama’s words than their content. Each person present knew that Asvattama could not have said what he just had in Bhisma’s presence. But now that the Grandsire was gone, words and deeds would become plain. Dron shivered with controlled wrath, torn between wanting to discipline his son and hesitating to do so in front of everyone. Kripa laid a calming hand on him and continued the discussion in his stead.

‘The point you make is pertinent, Asvattama, for it shows Govinda Shauri to be a greater danger than we had thought. It is one thing to use rhetoric, as you called it, to disguise one’s intentions, but to think of questioning the existence of Divine Order – that is beyond heathen, it reeks of evil. I understand now why things have come to this pass – to be honest, I have had my share of doubts as to Suka’s lenience or foresight, as it may be, in allying with the Firewright Devala Asita. But when faced with a possibility that the world as we know it may change, we must find that which unites all and hold true to it.’

Syoddhan said, ‘Which brings us back to where this discussion began. I do believe that Dharma may share our principles, our view of Divine Order, and if we consider what Asvattama says, it is imperative we explore the possibility. But is it even thinkable to have a frank discussion with Dharma, free of Govinda’s influence?’

‘What if we speak to him, or one of his brothers, alone?’ Dron proposed.

‘How would that be possible?’

‘It would be if we captured one of them alive.’

Syoddhan said, ‘If anyone is capable of doing that, it is you, Acharya. You must lead us now.’

Dron said, ‘I’d be honoured. But I’d also be remiss in that duty if I did not raise caution along with the promise of victory. Now that Bhisma Devavrata no longer fights, I fear that Dharma and his kinsmen may be less reluctant to engage in battle. There are old wounds that can be reopened and old feuds that may be resurrected on the battlefield. Dhrupad has not forgotten his defeat to me, and the need for vengeance is strong in his son, Dhrstyadymn. Bhurisravas of the Yadus and his kinsman Yuyudhana also have old scores to be settled. Sudakshin of Kashi… The list goes on. Many stand on either side for personal reasons, and it may not be possible to hold them back any longer. At the least, we should expect that Dharma will not be able to restrain those who fight for him. Eventually, the enemy, too, will begin to use astra-weapons.’

‘So it gets more violent and bloody,’ Dussasan said. ‘All wars come to that, sooner or later.’

‘Yes, and I’d rather there was less blood on our side.’