The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (40 page)

For a short while, Abhimanyu was baffled. He stood ankle-deep in the debris of his vehicle, his horses writhing on the ground. Shikandin and the others of his army were nowhere to be seen. He was alone.

A mocking cackle ran through the army around him. He let the rage of humiliation take over. Determined, Abhimanyu picked up his weapons and climbed out of the wreckage. He strode into the space between him and the huge division of men around him and placed his weapons on the ground, by his feet.

‘Well?’ Abhimanyu’s voice rang out over Syoddhan’s ranks. He smiled and said, taunting, ‘I’m still alive. Does anyone dare face me?’

The challenge took the enemy by surprise, more for the courage it showed than the warrior’s overconfidence. Glances of incredulity were exchanged, which Abhimanyu mistook for hesitation, but before he could act on his appraisal, a warrior not much older than himself dismounted from his vehicle. ‘I, Lakshman, son of Syoddhan, accept your challenge,’ the man declared. ‘This is well met, cousin.’

Without a word, Abhimanyu let loose an arrow. Lakshman lost no time in returning the assault. Syoddhan’s armies watched astonished as the two youngsters duelled. Lakshman was a well-trained warrior, indeed, one taught to value precision. Unlike Abhimanyu, he spent a few critical moments getting into a stance before releasing his arrow. Abhimanyu soon realized that those crucial moments were all that he needed. A heady rush filled him as he decided on a bold strategy. He fit an arrow to his bow in readiness, but did not let it loose. Lakshman continued to attack, while Abhimanyu moved around the field, baiting Lakshman and dodging his arrows, waiting for the right instant. Soon, Abhimanyu saw it – the predictable rhythm Lakshman had settled into; the even pace at which he moved, waited, attacked and then moved again.

This time, Abhimanyu was ready. As soon as Lakshman let loose an arrow, Abhimanyu struck, letting fly a single, swift shaft. Before Lakshman could bring himself out of his rhythm to deal with this unexpected attack, steady himself and counter, Abhimanyu’s arrow hit him, severing head from neck.

Bow still in hand, Lakshman’s decapitated frame fell slowly to the ground. In the silence that followed, the only sound that could be heard was Abhimanyu’s loud panting.

Syoddhan’s cry cut through the air stunning them all, for no one had noticed his arrival. ‘Kill him!’ he shouted. ‘All of you…kill him!’

Dron glared at Asvattama, who slid off his horse and approached Abhimanyu. Not hesitating for a moment, Abhimanyu let off a host of arrows in his adversary’s direction. Asvattama, however, was not Lakshman. He twisted and spun, dodging Abhimanyu’s arrows till, soon, Abhimanyu’s quiver was empty. Asvattama smiled, mocking the younger warrior.

Returning the gesture in kind, Abhimanyu threw down his bow and drew his sword.

‘Big mistake,’ Asvattama muttered under his breath and came forward. This time, Abhimanyu was out of his element. He was good and had been taught well by Govinda, but his opponent was an exceptionally skilled swordsman. As Abhimanyu showed signs of tiring, Asvattama said, ‘Didn’t Govinda teach you the most important lesson, young man? Never, never, fight against Asvattama Bharadvaja with a sword.’

‘He may have told me,’ Abhimanyu grunted as he swung hard. ‘But his own caution didn’t stop him ever, did it?’

‘For that stout heart, young man, I’ll leave you with a lesson but nothing more,’ Asvattama said. His sword moved faster than the eye could see, and soon Abhimanyu’s blade lay on the ground. The young man himself had no injury from Asvattama’s swordplay, except for a large bruise on his wrist where Asvattama had hit him with the flat of his blade.

‘Next time, then,’ Asvattama said, walking back to where Dron and the other commanders were clustered.

‘What was that?’ Vasusena demanded.

Asvattama did not reply, nor did he meet his father’s recriminating gaze.

Vasusena turned to Dron. ‘Is there no way to stop this boy before he makes a laughing stock of us? Let’s get him, all at once.’

‘Good idea!’ Dussasan agreed.

‘No…’ Asvattama began, with a look at Syoddhan, who clearly found Vasusena’s proposal just as distasteful he did. But lost in his grief, Syoddhan waited too long to speak his mind and by the time he had gathered his thoughts, it was too late.

Kripa was already preparing to lead the assault. He met Asvattama’s incredulous gaze with the explanation, ‘Don’t hesitate, Asvattama. If we don’t get rid of this boy, we can never call ourselves warriors again. Besides,’ he added, in a low voice, ‘what is to become of us if the world comes to know a half-trained youngster can break the most complex martial formation designed by the Firewrights? Forget this war, forget everything, think of the chaos and uprising we would have on our hands. The entire system relies on us to keep it stable; these kings rely on us to keep them safe. If we don’t kill Abhimanyu now, we lose the chance to prove our invincibility, and these same kings and soldiers who call us Acharya and bow to us will spit on our dead bodies. Don’t be a fool!’

‘You cannot…’

‘He’s right, Asvattama,’ Dron cut him short. He took a deep breath and then screamed out loud, ‘Charge! Charge! Bring me that boy’s head!’

Cackling with eagerness, Dussasan charged, Kripa and Vasusena flanking him.

Abhimanyu was taken aback by the unusual and unorthodox combined assault, but he soon regained his wits. A sword was of no use, he realized. He needed something that gave him more cover against multiple adversaries. Diving back into the debris of his chariot, he heaved with all his strength at a wheel that had partially come off from its axle. With a grunt of effort, he pulled. It gave just in time, as the first of Kripa’s arrows whizzed at him. Raising the wheel, Abhimanyu used it as a shield. Quickly he set it upright on the ground and rolled it forward, moving under its cover. He came back to where he’d dropped his sword and picked it up again. A wild, blood-curdling cry slipped from him, as he threw himself into the fight.

He felt warm blood spray on his face and found pleasure in the knowledge that it was the enemy’s. Men attacked him from all directions but he moved without thinking, maddened by a force he had neither experienced before, nor understood now. Abhimanyu laughed without knowing why, howled with delirious joy, and sought out his opponents with a feral hunger. He saw himself in their fear-widened eyes as they fell dead: a red demon, a blood-drenched god that none could withstand. With every corpse that fell he felt sated and thirsty at once. He could not take another step without treading on still-warm flesh or spilled entrails, but it was not enough.

Dussasan’s son, Buhsasan, now joined the fray, as did Vasusena’s son, Vrishasena. Asvattama remained where he was, but could no longer ignore his father. Dron came up behind him to rasp in his ear, ‘Prove it,’ he said, and went ahead to confront Abhimanyu. His eyes filled with pain, Asvattama followed.

Ahead, a spinning whirlwind and a storm of death. At its centre, Abhimanyu, fighting first with his sword and then, as the blade remained wedged in an enemy soldier’s flesh, raising the wheel above his head with both arms, as though he wielded a giant discus. His shoulders taut under the wheel’s weight, the veins of his neck bulging from the strain, Abhimanyu moved, now one with his weapon, across the field. Wherever he went, men fell dead, crumbling like clay, their skulls bashed in by the spinning wheel, torsos rent and limbs severed by sharp splinters of its wood.

Dron watched, stunned by the valour and skill of the young warrior, till a gut-churning cry of pain rent the air, followed by Vasusena’s shout as his son, Vrishasena, fell dead, his legs severed at the knees, his eviscerated guts spilling into his own lap as he collapsed. The Acharya saw he no longer had a choice. ‘Now, Kripa! Asvattama! Aim for the wheel, shatter it!’ he instructed.

Kripa let loose more than a dozen arrows, shattering the wheel into splinters. Abhimanyu let go of it just in time and threw himself behind the remains of his chariot-rig to escape the flying shards. His hand fell on a mace, or a part thereof. Picking it up, he faced his enemy yet again. The makeshift weapon felt light in his hand; he felt it would but fly away like a bird if he let it go. The strangeness of the moment brought him back to reality. He looked at the battlefield around him, at the death and destruction he had caused, and the mob that advanced upon him to have its vengeance. Slowly, the mace seemed to regain its natural bulk.

This is the end
, Abhimanyu realized.
I will die here
. There would be no going back to camp, no hero’s welcome, no joking with Govinda and Partha. There would be no looking into Uttara’s loving eyes again or feeling her warmth close to him. At the thought of her, the dismay he felt disappeared. Abhimanyu gazed with longing as her lovely features played before his mind’s eye. He willed the image onto his every nerve and pore, committing it to a memory that he knew would not fade with death or whatever lay beyond. Then, he was ready. With a yell, he ran at the enemy, his mace upraised to strike.

‘Now! Aim for the boy! Kill him! Kill him!’ Dron commanded. Kripa immediately complied.

Asvattama hesitated, but as his father’s gaze turned on him he closed his eyes and let fly his arrows till he heard the order to stop. ‘By Agni and Varuna!’ he gasped as he opened his eyes and saw Abhimanyu.

The warrior was on his knees, his hands covered in his own blood, alive but barely so. Countless arrows had perforated his chest and arms, even his back, and two had gone into his left thigh. Blood and bile dribbled out of his mouth.

Vasusena started a great cheer, which the armies around them took up.

‘Wait!’ Buhsasan said, still gasping for breath. ‘He’s not dead, not yet.’ With a leer of anticipation, he came forward, dragging along a heavy mace.

With what life was left in him, Abhimanyu tried to reach for the weapon he had dropped, but he was too wounded to move swiftly. Buhsasan swung his mace, crushing Abhimanyu’s arm. A cry of pain escaped Abhimanyu, at which Buhsasan laughed and kicked the prone warrior hard, sending him sprawling on his back and then followed with a blow to his chest, mangling armour into lacerated flesh.

Abhimanyu’s eyes reeled back in their sockets. Pain wracked his entire body and intensified till it was a throbbing beyond bearing.

‘Shall we make him squeal like a little girl?’ Buhsasan asked the crowd, who urged him on. ‘Or shall we strip him like a whore? I hear his
mother
, as he supposedly calls her, was quite the entertainer when my father took off her robe.’

The words seemed to bring Syoddhan back to reality. ‘Finish it!’ he ordered.

‘But, Uncle…’

‘I said, finish it! This is a war, not some pleasure joust in the palace gardens. Finish it and get back into ranks.’ With that, Syoddhan strode away, his men moving aside in a hurry to let him through.

Buhsasan waited till he was sure his uncle was gone before turning back to Abhimanyu. ‘Oh well,’ he consoled himself, ‘at least I get to do this.’ He spat on Abhimanyu’s face and kicked it yet again, enjoying the fact that the prone warrior was conscious enough to be aware of his own humiliation.

Lost in agony, Abhimanyu felt his eyes close and the world around him spun into darkness.

But Buhsasan was not done. He stamped down on Abhimanyu’s thigh, driving the embedded arrows deeper into the flesh, grinding the sharp arrowheads in till the shards brutally severed nerve from muscle and bone. Abhimanyu screamed, and his eyes flew open.

It was what Buhsasan wanted. ‘Look at me,’ he challenged.

Despite his pain, Abhimanyu met his opponent’s gaze without fear. Then he smiled, as he looked through the man and into the distance beyond, where Uttara’s face had painted itself on a clear blue sky.

Buhsasan neither noticed, nor cared. He braced one foot on the raw, bloody flesh of Abhimanyu’s chest and raised his mace high. ‘This is for Vrishasena.’ His feral cry cutting through the dust and heat of the battlefield, Buhsasan brought the mace down on Abhimanyu’s head.

19

PARTHA’S MOST CHERISHED MEMORY WAS OF A SPRING AFTERNOON
, many, many years ago, before the strife had started. Abhimanyu had been about five or six years old. That day, Partha had taken his son with him on a simple hunt of sorts, hoping to inculcate the sense of being a warrior in the boy from childhood. At first Partha had been patient, but he had gradually grown irate. Abhimanyu had shown no interest whatsoever in the act of hunting, his child-sized weapons, or the art of wielding them. He remained far too engrossed in the colours of spring, the scented air, and the swaying trees to pay any attention to his father’s demonstration of how to track animals. When they did sight some small wildlife, Abhimanyu had asked if he might please get down from his pony and pet them.

Angry, Partha had pushed on, ignoring his son’s wan face and the gentle suggestions from the attendants that children needed rest. When, finally, the sun became unbearable, as it sometimes did even in spring, they stopped for a meal. Partha had suggested a practice joust with wooden swords while they waited for the attendants to prepare them some food, but a forlorn Abhimanyu had refused. And Partha had lost his temper. He was not a man to shout as such but, this once, he did not hold back. Abhimanyu had listened, standing at respectful attention as an obedient son should, but he was just a child. Tears filled his large, soulful eyes, and streamed down his chubby cheeks.

Immediately, Partha had regretted his actions and attempted to console the boy. It had taken a while for him to assure his son that he was not displeased with him, and the beginnings of a tired and very sleepy smile appeared on the boy’s face. He then sat down in the shade of a tree with Abhimanyu’s head on his lap, looking down at his son with love and a trace of disappointment as the boy slept. When Abhimanyu had woken up, Partha had tried one last time to explain the notion of hunting and how it was an exciting and honourable activity. He pointed out that the danger it posed to the hunter made it fair sport, that animals hunted each other for food and that death was, in any case, inevitable.