The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (55 page)

Dharma opened his mouth to say something but Syoddhan held up a hand and continued, ‘Those I fought for, those who I hoped would rule this earth and revel in its pleasures, are dead. I have nothing to live for, nothing to fight for.’

Dharma was enraged. ‘How dare you presume I’d take what you throw to me as though I were a beggar? I will win this Empire from you in fair battle, and over your lifeless body!’

‘Fair, you say?’ Balabadra interceded. ‘If you truly mean that, Dharma, then allow Syoddhan to rest. You know that he held your men back, single-handed, yesterday. He is tired and wounded and in no position to duel.’

Dharma then turned on Balabadra. ‘Why should I show this scum, this smear on the honour of my family, any pity? What pity did he show us when we begged from him but five villages in the cause of peace? What kindness did he show us, when we stood forsaken by our own at the dice game? What mercy did he show Panchali when Dussasan dragged her into the assembly by her hair? That insult was but partly avenged with the spilling of Dussasan’s blood, but today it shall be complete.’

Balabadra made to retort, but Syoddhan rested his hand on his teacher’s shoulder to restrain him. ‘Balabadra asked for justice and fairness, not pity and mercy. Neither he nor I are cowards to grovel at your feet, Dharma. If you wish to settle this in battle, so be it. I am ready. As you can see, my armour lies on the river bank, and I stand before you with nothing but my sword and mace…’

A dismayed Balabadra appealed in silence to Govinda, and hesitation and doubt flickered across Dharma’s face. But Govinda said nothing. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and stood where he was. Balabadra’s nostrils flared, but he held his temper in check.

Taking his speechlessness for assent, Dharma nodded at Bhim, who got set for battle, though not without some hesitation. ‘The mace?’ he asked Syoddhan.

‘The mace,’ Syoddhan said with an affectionate look at Balabadra, ‘just like in the old days…’

‘And I remain stronger than you, Syoddhan, just like it was in the old days,’ Bhim declared.

The others backed away, letting the two warriors have the sandy lakeside tract for their arena. Then with a great cry, Bhim fell on his opponent, dealing what could have been a killing strike. Syoddhan deftly stepped away and used the opportunity to land a few blows on Bhim, from the side. ‘And I,’ he said, ‘remain more skilled than you. Just like it was in the old days!’

The statement rankled Bhim. He spun around, swinging his adamantine mace at Syoddhan’s skull. The sheer force of his move made the others move back further, giving both combatants a wider space. This time, Syoddhan did not dodge, but brought his weapon up to repel Bhim’s. He nearly lost his balance with the move, but was well rewarded for his attempt as Bhim took a hit on the face.

Syoddhan paused as the ensuing cut on Bhim’s left temple bled profusely into his eyes, distracting him. Bhim wiped away the blood even as Dharma shouted at him to move in quickly. Ignoring Dharma’s shouts, Bhim faced Syoddhan. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

Once again, the two men flew at each other, this time, their maces ringing in quick succession, swinging and parrying. Despite his injuries, Syoddhan seemed to be doing well. He fought calmly, using skill and strategy.

Bhim, on the other hand, was beginning to lose his advantage to wrath. He heaped on the taunts and insults, snarling and yelling. It soon became his undoing, as Syoddhan landed the perfect strike to his chest. The blow would have no doubt crushed a weaker man’s heart. Bhim merely staggered back, pausing just long enough to take a deep breath. Then, spitting out the blood and phlegm that had collected in his mouth, he flew at Syoddhan again, trying to catch the man unawares.

Syoddhan took the blow, returning it with one of his own. Spinning around, he landed a double-handed strike on Bhim’s upper arm, trying to get him to drop his mace. But Bhim held on. He could sense Syoddhan beginning to tire as his wounds, old and new, bled profusely and he began to limp.

Chests heaving, the two men circled the makeshift arena, biding their time. Bhim watched his opponent closely. Syoddhan’s left leg had to have been injured in the previous day’s encounter, either by an arrow, or when he had been thrown to the ground from his rig. The disadvantage did not show when Syoddhan moved to his right, but he was visibly slower when he had to lead with his left. With a snarl, Bhim rushed Syoddhan, aiming at his right. Syoddhan, however, did not dodge left, as Bhim had expected. Instead he spun around at the very last instant, letting Bhim’s mace miss him by a few fingers. At the same time, though, he raised his own weapon and brought it down hard, once again on Bhim’s arm.

Bhim felt fire run through him as a bone shattered and his arm was dislodged from its socket. He could feel the searing pain of muscles being torn, and every nerve and sinew in his arm burned and throbbed. ‘Aaah!’ the cry of distress slipped from him as he fell to his knees.

Syoddhan lowered his weapon and waited.

‘Bhim! Are you all right?’ Dharma called out.

Bhim shut his eyes and doubled over in an effort to combat the ache. At length he raised his head, trying to find the right words to speak, to say some words of sense and possibly conciliation. As he did so, he realized with a start that Syoddhan had not moved back. In fact, Syoddhan stood close by, on Bhim’s right, his mace swinging loose from his hand, the tip resting on the ground.

Bhim tightened his grip on his own weapon. Then, still kneeling, he lifted his mace and, without warning, struck Syoddhan on his thigh. Syoddhan tried to dodge but his injured leg prevented him from moving fast enough, and he bore the full brunt of the blow. The sound of his bones shattering echoed through the glade.

Bhim stood up at once, ready to counter and defend but there was no need. Syoddhan had already toppled over, his body an awkward bag of flesh. The blow had broken his pelvic bone, disjoining his legs from his upper body. Four of his ribs had splintered; another three had snapped and jutted out from his stomach like daggers emerging from within. Skin and flesh rent open, Syoddhan’s guts spilled out in a bloody mess.

‘You coward! You cheat!’ Balabadra ran forward. ‘By Hara, I’ll kill you for this, Bhim! Hah!’

‘No, Balabadra!’ Dharma shouted, as a stunned Bhim staggered back.

‘Balabadra, no!’ Syoddhan’s voice was a weak whisper.

Dharma and Partha ineffectively tried intervene but Balabadra shrugged them off as though they were children. Snarling, he pounced on Bhim.

Govinda stepped in, quickly wrapping his arms around Balabadra. The two men fell to the ground with the force of their collision, but quickly scrambled to their feet. Before Balabadra could attack again, Govinda bodily restrained him.

‘Don’t stop me, Govinda!’ Balabadra shouted, his eyes filled with tears. ‘What world is this? What shame! Are justice and honour dead? Have morality and nobility been overrun by greed and power-lust? How can you let this happen? How can you bear to watch all this?’

‘I can’t,’ Govinda confessed. ‘I can’t bear to watch it all. But I must. We must. Yes, the world has come to this… Someday, I may even ask you to spill the blood of those you love the most, to destroy everything. But today, I must ask you to wait… Trust me, brother…’

Balabadra stopped resisting and let out a sob. Govinda let go. ‘I’m sorry,’ Balabadra said to the collapsed Syoddhan. For all that had happened, the end of the Great War would be nothing more than an anticlimactic admission of victory and defeat.

Govinda squeezed his brother’s shoulder and went towards the fallen warrior. Ignoring the confused expressions on the others’ faces, he knelt down.

Syoddhan had the look of a jubilant victor, as he gasped out, ‘So… so it comes to this…I… bear you no malice, Govinda. I hold nothing against…anyone. We…we did what we had to; we fought… for what we believed was right. It was a good battle, and both our victories are… well-won.’

Govinda lifted the limp man up to a sitting position, bearing his weight. ‘Indeed, you’ve won…’

‘To fight… you is an honour. And… that honour is victory.’

Govinda said, ‘I’m not as good a man as you think.’

The denial spurred a last burst of strength in Syoddhan. His voice was suddenly clear, but also distant, as though he spoke from far away: ‘So you say. But the truth is, you’ve done right by us all. I go now to the realms of my forefathers, where I shall sit at the head of any table and be the first to drink at every feast. My life is not forfeit; rather, it’s given in a good cause, given as a sacred ritual of sacrifice. If so, you’re its priest, and I have had the privilege of being the sacrificial offering. History shall not speak of you without taking my name too. Yes, they may call us enemies and, perhaps, we’ve lived so but…’ He descended into a fit of coughing, blood spewing from punctured lungs.

‘You die as my friend, Syoddhan,’ Govinda completed. ‘I only wish I’d said these words before…’

Hoarse and faint, Syoddhan rasped, ‘You can say them many times over when we meet again.’ He smiled and closed his eyes. Slowly, his breathing became shallow. Moments later, it stopped.

Govinda sat still, cradling the dead prince in his arms. He showed no obvious sorrow, but stared into the distance, as though he saw into the past or maybe the future. After some time, he let Syoddhan’s limp form roll to the ground and stood up, covered in the warrior’s blood. It was streaked across his face; it had soaked his robes and stuck in matted clumps to his hair. His palms were red, red and warm. He stared at them, the flaring of his nostrils the single clue to the storm of emotions he hid so well.

‘It’s done then,’ Bhim said, stunned and relieved at the thought. He let his mace fall from his hands. ‘It’s done…’

‘No,’ Govinda said, ‘it’s not done yet.’ Eyes filled with fire, he walked up to Dharma. Gripping the man’s hand firmly, he told him, ‘Aryavarta is now yours. Rule it well,
Emperor
.’ With that, he walked away, his tread heavy and tired. Balabadra glared at the reinstated ruler with pure wrath and followed.

Dharma Yudhisthir the Just, Emperor of Aryavarta, turned, triumphant, to his companions. His brothers, however, appeared not to share his joy, and he saw Panchali gazing at him with…was it pity? He blinked in disbelief and challenged her with his eyes. She nodded to his hands. Dharma looked down to see his hands were smeared with blood. Syoddhan’s blood. It soaked the ground. It stained the river. It blossomed on the trees. It streaked the sky. And its metallic taste filled the wind.

The land around him, his Aryavarta, flourished with death.

Dharma finally understood. Govinda Shauri had kept the oath he had made in the forests of Kamyaka, without exception. He had sworn upon the mountains, the skies and the oceans, that he would change Aryavarta as they knew it. He had promised that those who had hurt Panchali, those who had failed her, would pay. And Dharma Yudhisthir’s would be the most terrible punishment of them all.

Part 3

1

SHIKANDIN WALKED INTO HIS TENT AND THREW HIMSELF ONTO
his bed with a weary groan. At no time during the war had he felt as tired as he did now. At dawn, camp would have to be broken, the dead accounted for, and the living paid for their services and despatched to their homes. Armies, or what was left of them after eighteen days of battle, had to be disbanded and regrouped, sometimes rebuilt, and a hundred other things would have to be done to bring life back to normal in the nations of Aryavarta.

There were things he personally had to see to as well. Devala Asita had left Syoddhan’s camp the night Vasusena had fallen and Shikandin was determined to hunt him down. There also remained the question of seeing into reality the dream the war had been fought for, beginning with his homeland, Panchala. Dhrstyadymn would eventually have to relinquish his throne and a different ruler – one chosen by the people – would be set up in his stead.

But first, Shikandin noted, he had to deal with a problem that was far more immediate. Opening his eyes, he propped himself up on his elbows and addressed what appeared to be a dark, empty corner of his tent. ‘You might as well take a seat, you know. Pour us both some wine while you’re at it.’

Asvattama stepped forward with a weak smile. His fair skin was leathery and bloodless, and his eyes held a strained, haunted look. ‘You took your time figuring out I was here, Shikandin. You’ve lost your touch!’

‘I’m relaxing. The war is over… It wouldn’t hurt you to loosen up a little too.’

Asvattama sighed. ‘I can’t. I’m bound to avenge my father. It was the last… In fact, it was the only thing he’s asked of me. You know what that means.’

‘Not an enviable position…’

‘It’s not,’ Asvattama admitted, handing Shikandin a goblet he had half-filled. He sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Shikandin knew well what Asvattama meant. He glanced out of the tent at the cool moonlight outside. The wheel of Time had turned, sweeping out the past and ushering in the future: A new age. A nighthawk flew overhead, gliding with natural grace.
Gliding free
. Govinda’s words echoed in his ears:
We are merely the instruments of Time
. Shikandin saw what he had to do. He realized, in fact, that he had known it all along, since the day the war had begun.

His heart at ease, Shikandin looked at Asvattama. ‘We still have time to finish our wine…’ he said, enigmatic.

Asvattama did not notice. He picked up his goblet. ‘Do you remember the day we put up the first waterwheel, east of the stone mines? I can’t forget how excited and happy we were that day, dancing under the stream like children… Hah, by Rudra, I had never behaved that way. And probably won’t again.’

Shikandin drained his cup. ‘Those were good days.’

A poignant, meaningful silence filled the space between the two men for a short while, after which Shikandin stood up and said, ‘Thank you for coming to me first, Asvattama.’

Asvattama, too, got to his feet. ‘I’m not sure what I fight for anymore. Are you?’

‘Govinda. We fight for Govinda; both of us do. We fight for his dream, for Aryavarta, the world.’