The Thirteenth Day
Read The Thirteenth Day Online
Authors: Aditya Iyengar
Aditya Iyengar
is a writer who lives and works in Mumbai. To know more about him and his work, follow him on Twitter
@adityaiyengar
Published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2015
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Copyright © Aditya Iyengar 2015
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First impression 2015
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The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Printed by Thomson Press India Ltd., Faridabad
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
A Note to the Reader
Astronomical calculations have placed the Kurukshetra War to be around the year 3102 BC. Other sources place it between 900 and 2500 BC. For the purposes of this story, I have taken the period to be around 1000 BC, when India had just entered the Iron Age and the ruling classes were vying to obtain this new and powerful metal that would give them an edge over their neighbouring kingdoms.
Now coming to my story.
The Thirteenth Day
is a retelling of the life of Abhimanyu within the story of the Kurukshetra War. As a media professional who’s spent years creating different stories for brands and people, I had wanted to explore the process of fact becoming myth and wrote this as an analogy to modern times where we’re constantly trying to engineer an ‘image’ of ourselves for a larger public. Mass media and now social media are the new instruments of the bards of our times, and in fact, on social media, we have become our own bards; weaving impossibly perfect narratives of our lives in this Selfie Yuga. Like the characters in the subsequent pages, we are forever conscious of the kind of impression we create for the public at large. Just take a look at any social media timeline. People cherry-pick pictures, articles and various quotes to depict how they feel about things. We want to be seen as successful professionals, dreamers, visionaries, travellers and do-gooders.
We are forever engaged in the creation of our own myth, in the telling of our own story, whether it’s on a social networking website, or national television.
Myths are not fantasy. They are our day-to-day lives.
In this context, I felt that it would be interesting to explore the possibility of the Mahabharata as history rather than mythology. There was, or must have been, an actual war thousands of years ago that got repeatedly embellished in its retelling to become the story we know today. Over the years, men acquired supernatural powers and events became contorted to acquire new significance. Real weapons got replaced by astras with nuclear potential. Real people became rakshasas or celestial beings, Suyodhana became Duryodhana, and what was probably a small battle became a war that nearly wiped out every man in Bharatvarsha.
Perhaps that’s what our ancestors had in mind when they narrated the Mahabharata. Maybe they too wanted to tell their own stories in grand terms?
They were human after all. Just like us.
I find it particularly apt in today’s context, since we’re desperately trying to find scientific explanations for flying vimanas and potential nuclear weapons. It seems we would rather have a past filled with great scientists than just great artists and writers who could dream up these wonderful and awe-inspiring creations. It’s a strange irony: we’re spending our time trying to find the truth in our past, but creating myths of ourselves in the present.
The events and characters of this novel are mostly faithful to the original story from the Mahabharata. Some minor characters and details of war are fictional. On the whole I’ve tried to capture the spirit of the times, rather than document it rigorously.
A big thank you to my agent Urmila Dasgupta of Purple Folio. Thank you, Rupa Publications, for taking on this work, Amrita Mukerji and Kadambari Mishra for editing it with a fine hand, and Maithili Doshi Aphale for the cover design. As always, thank you Amma and Ashvin, for reading it and providing me with endless support and encouragement. This book is for you.
The old warrior lay on a bed of arrows.
At least, that’s what the bards would say. He groaned softly and tried to adjust his position, then winced as a thick whip of pain jolted through his body. He was a young boy again, being pinched awake by his tutor in the middle of class. He chuckled at the memory, greeting it like a long-lost friend. Memories of his childhood had been scarce for some time now, and it was strange that this one had slipped through the usually impenetrable wall of his thoughts.
Truth is, Arjuna had panicked and fired more arrows than were strictly necessary. They were bronze tipped, not surprising considering iron arrows were in short supply in the Pandava camp. Arrow after arrow had rent through the iron breastplate, a couple had cracked open his helmet and lacerated his skull. He remembered swivelling around and then falling onto the black-red soil.
And then nothing.
His eyes had opened later, without his knowledge or consent. A number of concerned faces peered down at him. He tried to stand up but found that he couldn’t. After a short struggle he realized that the the arrows that had struck him in the back were propping him up unevenly. He remembered picturing a cockroach writhing on its back waiting to be killed, and thinking it was funny and wholly inappropriate for a Kuru patriarch to feel this way. He tried to stand once again, but the arrows twisted within him and dragged him out of consciousness.
‘Arjuna’s masterpiece,’ he thought to himself and chuckled. In the four hours since he had fallen on the arrow shafts, he had become a minor attraction at the battlefield. His body, along with the protruding arrows, had been heaved delicately by an entire platoon of soldiers to a tent that had been hastily set up on a small hillock overlooking the battlefield of Kurukshetra.
All the important kings of Bharatvarsha came and paid their respects to him—some out of reverence, most out of sheer curiosity. He had become a living, breathing installation; a morbid work of art. Ironic for one who had spent his life behind the stage rather than on it.
The battle had been suspended on that day given his unique status as grandfather to both sides of the battlefield and his eminence as a senior statesman of the Kuru empire. Medics from both camps had attended to him and had dislodged nearly all the arrows by now, squabbling every minute of the way on the line of treatment to be prescribed.
The arrows were gone, but pain still racked his body, thundering through him whenever he got too comfortable. He wondered how the bards were going to describe the horror and glory of Bhishma. Would they depict him stretched on a bed of arrows in elaborate paeans? Would they describe the pain that inhabited him and resurfaced without warning, as if playing a macabre game of hide-and-seek, thumbing its nose at him and running away? Would he be seen as a casualty of destiny, or its willing servant? Or, if they were generous, would he be seen as the man who did everything in his power to prevent the Kuru kingdom from its tragic inevitable end?
Strangely enough, he felt comfortable now, in a way he never had before. The weight that had straddled his shoulders for the past two generations had been lifted almost instantly as the first arrows scuttled his armour. Now he, Bhishma the Wise, the Magnificent, the Terrible, Conqueror of Kingdoms, Destroyer of Heroes, was helpless. The outcome of the Kurukshetra war fought between the Pandavas and the Kauravas was out of his hands.
Finally.
For ten days now, both sides had battled on the field of Kurukshetra, an even plain surrounded by small hills, agreed upon in advance by both warring parties for its proximity to the allied kingdoms and its relative distance from human settlements. Bhishma had insisted that the battle for Bharatvarsha should not affect the lives of its people. There would be no raiding or marauding. No great manoeuvring or outmanoeuvring. It would remain a private affair of the participating kingdoms and that was all. Battle would begin in the morning and end only as the evening approached.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his reverie. A figure opened the tent flap from the outside and sidled in. It took a few steps towards the bed, hesitatingly, like a child at a yajna, and stood mutely.
‘If you’re looking for a fight, you’ve caught me one day too late, putra,’ Bhishma opened the conversation. He was in a chatty mood, expansive in his plight.
‘I still wouldn’t take you on, Grandsire.’
Bhishma recognized the voice. It was smooth as it was rustic; a singer’s voice, but a country bumpkin’s tongue.
Bhishma had never really liked Radheya, the king of Anga—Suyodhana’s pet bully. An obnoxious little man who took pleasure in being insolent to the elders of the Kuru empire. Suyodhana himself couldn’t rein him in. A few days before the battle, Bhishma had had an argument with him over troop placements and Radheya refused to take the field after that for the past ten days, a decision that was costing the Kaurava army dearly. Immature brat. Not even forty years back, one could have been executed for even stepping outside the camp to take a piss.
The old soldier took a deep breath and sighed, ‘You’re very kind, though my present condition suggests otherwise. What can I do for you?’
‘I…I just came to see how you were doing, Grandsire.’
‘I see...and how does it look like I’m doing, putra?’
Radheya grinned and shook his head wolfishly, ‘Point taken sir…though, I think you took a few more in your back today.’
The one thing Bhishma hadn’t missed was his idiotic sense of humour. Radheya no doubt thought he was being witty and sophisticated, but sarcasm wasn’t Bhishma’s forte and it seemed a wasted effort to counter wits without an audience in the vicinity. Besides, what use was all the anger now when nothing was in his control? Bhishma’s face broke into a tired grin and wrinkles eddied across his face.
‘Pah! Impudent boy. If I could just stand, I’d tan your hide.’
Radheya smiled. ‘The reason I’ve come is I wish to put the past behind us. I’m sorry we clashed about troop placements. I have decided to take the field. I just wanted to let you know.’
‘Decided to take the field? That’s very considerate of you now. We could have done with your help ten days ago.’
‘I’m sorry, but it wasn’t all my fault. You didn’t have to be so stubborn.’
Bhishma calmed himself. Now was not the time to lose his temper.
Not when he had a plan.
He sighed, ‘I’m too old to bear any grudges, putra. And I reckon you’re too young. But let’s not talk about the battle for a moment—I suppose you know how you are related to the Pandavas by now, Radheya?’
‘Yes, grandsire. I’m Kunti’s, I mean, Lady Kunti’s first child. But she abandoned me to avoid facing the wrath of her parents after an…ah, affair. She told me the whole story a few days before the war.’
‘I see. Well, it’s heartening to know that Kunti has finally decided to act like an adult. I didn’t learn of your birth until much later. And when I did, it was from your Uncle Vidura who kept the fact a secret from everyone to protect Kunti’s marriage to Pandu. My apologies for not informing you then. It hardly seemed necessary once Suyodhana brought you out from the stables and made you king of Anga. But none of that is important now. Think of the future, putra. You are related by blood to the five most powerful princes of Bharatvarsha who would welcome you with open arms and a kingdom. Doesn’t it make you feel any differently about them? After all, they are your brothers.’