AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (58 page)

***

Krishna stood uneasily before Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. The old King sat with a bowed head, his strong arms tense.

“You did not have the kindness to spare at least one son, Krishna?” Gandhari asked in a cold voice from which all emotion had fled.

Krishna did not reply. Dhritarashtra’s body shook and he wept like a distraught child. Gandhari put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder. Finally, Dhritarashtra said in a hoarse voice, “I heard how Bhima killed Suyodhana. Sanjaya told me. I bow to your sense of
dharma.
May you and your tribe increase, my Lord.”

“Your son had perpetuated evil in this land. He stole what was Yudhishtra’s and refused to return it. I tried for peace and he insulted me. I had warned you of this that day, revered Kuru King,” Krishna said in a soft voice.

“The kingship belongs to me, Vasudeva Krishna. Fate made me blind but that does not mean my firstborn had to be unlucky, too. You stole what belonged to me and gave it to others – my kingdom, my sons, everything. The seers should have known that the one who stole butter in his childhood would steal kingdoms when he grew up.”

“My Lord, sorrow has blunted your wisdom. Your son tried to strip his cousin’s wife, and he paid the price. So did the great Bhishma, Drona and all the others – they paid with their lives for their silence. That is the law of
dharma.
I am just a
dharmapurusha,
an agent.
Dharma
is eternal, unchanging, omnipotent.”

Dhritarashtra had nothing more to say. His tears had dried. He lay down on his bed and turned his face to the wall. Krishna waited nearby, fidgeting with his flute.

Gandhari said, “The King needs to rest.” Krishna bowed and was about to leave when Gandhari’s soft words pierced his heart. “Prabhu, what was my Vikarna’s fault? He was the only one who spoke up in the Sabha. We shall meet tomorrow at my son’s funeral, tell me then so that a mother’s heart can be soothed by
dharma.”

Krishna bowed again and gently closed the door of the royal chamber. He sighed as he stood in the veranda of the Hastinapura palace. The massive stone building was eerily silent except for the sobs coming from its unlit rooms. The thunderstorm had not passed. As his eyes scanned the south, his heart began to hammer. His sharp ears had picked up the sound of marching men. He leapt from the balcony and jumped into the saddle of his waiting horse. He knew what was happening. The Brahmin they had let go was returning. He prayed he was not too late.

***

Three dark figures stood with bated breath before the Pandava camp. The eyes in Iravan’s head gleamed in the moonlight and a strange fear gripped them. The Nagas were restless as they waited for instructions. They shuffled their feet and whispered to each other in hushed voices. It was grotesque, the irony of the laughter they had heard, the cruelty of the merriment in the Pandava camp. Now the camp lay crouched like a sleepy beast, slumbering in drunkenness, careless in victory. Rain had made the ground slushy.

A deep moan sounded, it came from Kurukshetra. Was it Bhishma or Suyodhana? Aswathama gritted his teeth. “You two stand at the gate and do not allow anyone to escape. I am going in with them,” Aswathama said to Kripa and Kritavarma, gesturing to his Naga companions. He turned and rushed at the guards at the gate. Before they knew what was happening he had plunged his sword into their hearts. The Nagas lit their torches, illuminating their painted faces and hair tied to resemble cobra hoods. Their ash-smeared bodies and tridents made them look like creatures from another world. Howling and ululating war cries as old as humanity, they broke into the Pandava camp, slaughtering everyone in sight.

Aswathama ran from cottage to cottage, searching for the Pandavas. He stumbled upon half-naked men, tottering out on drunken legs and quickly dispatched them to the abode of Yama. The Nagas were setting fire to the camp and letting loose the elephants and horses from their stables. The beasts ran amok. Many of the Pandava warriors were crushed under the stampeding feet of the elephants before they even knew what was happening. Others were terrified by the sight of the Nagas aiming tridents at them. “Rakshasas are attacking! Shiva
gunas
are attacking!” they screamed, not sure if what they were seeing was real or the effects of the
soma
they had consumed. Panic gripped the Pandava camp and they began indiscriminately firing arrows, swinging swords and bludgeoning with their maces whoever they found. The few who managed to escape, fell into the waiting hands of Kripa and Kritavarma, who showed no mercy. The fire that had lit Khandiva years before and killed thousands of Nagas had come back to destroy Arjuna’s camp. The wheel of
dharma
kept turning.

Aswathama kicked open the door of a luxurious-looking camp and saw a man looking out of his window. “Time to go, friend,” he said in a calm voice. Dhristadyumna looked at Aswathama and froze in fear. Before he could scream, Aswathama had kicked him in the groin. He doubled up on the floor, writhing in pain. Grabbing hold of Dhristadyumna’s hair, Aswathama dragged him out and kicked him in the ribs.

“It is wrong to kick me when I am down and unarmed,” pleaded the Commander of the Pandava army.

“Yes it is, and it is all you deserve, you scoundrel!” Aswathama pressed his knees on Dhristadyumna’s chest, pinning him to the ground. “It would appear that a prostitute has begun preaching the virtue of chastity.” Aswathama smashed his opponent’s face with the hilt of his sword.

Dhristadyumna clutched at his broken nose, blood spurting through his fingers. Aswathama grabbed his arm and started hacking off his fingers, one by one. “Mercy, mercy...” Dhristadyumna begged.

“Mercy, mercy...” Aswathama mimicked, pressing the edge of his sword to Dhristadyumna’s throat. “You cut off my father’s head when he was bowed with grief and now you squeal like a pig?”

“Kill me if you must, but do not torture me...“

“Bhishma is lying there out in the cold, waiting for death. Suyodhana is lying with his thighs broken. You are a lucky bastard to die so easily. Have you ever killed a chicken?” Aswathama asked as he threw down his sword and cracked his knuckles.

When realisation dawned, Dhristadyumna begged, “No, oh no...that is so disgraceful. I am a Kshatriya. Give me a death befitting a warrior. Kill me with your sword.”

“Bare hands give more satisfaction.” Aswathama gripped Dhristadyumna’s throat with both hands. “I want to see the fear in your face, to see your eyes popping out as you run out of breath, like this, this, this and...” He peered into Dhristadyumna’s eyes. “And the final snap of your throat. Farewell!” He kicked Dhristadyumna’s inert body away and let out an animal howl. He had much more work to do.

In the shadows, the eunuch waited for him. Shikandi swung his sword and hit Aswathama’s head. The Brahmin’s instincts saved him as he deflected the blow with his sword, but the eunuch managed to inflict a gash on his forehead. Aswathama knocked him down and plunged his sword deep into Shikandi’s heart. He kept stabbing until he was sure the eunuch was dead.

Around him, tents were on fire. Kripa and Kritavarma had entered the camp and were running around, holding flaming torches in one hand and swords in the other, setting the tents alight. Men and women were running in panic, screaming and falling over each other.

Where were the Pandavas? An arrow hit the gem on Aswathama’s forehead and fell at his feet. He touched his forehead. The gem was still there but his forehead was bleeding. Aswathama turned to see where the arrow had come from. Another swished past him, a finger’s breadth from his throat. He ran to the hut from where the arrow had come and smashed open the door with a kick. He saw five men in the dancing light of the fire that was devouring the huts nearby. They were all choking, coughing and panting in the smoke. The heat was unbearable. Aswathama caught hold of one of the men. In the glow of the flames, there was no mistaking his face. “Here goes the gambler.” Aswathama cut off the head with a swift swing of his sword. His laughter rose above the crackling of the fire and the terrified screams outside. Then he caught the biggest of the remaining men and thrust his sword through his heart. “This is for shattering Suyodhana’s thighs, Bhima. May you rot in hell!”

“Where is that shameless cheat who shot Karna when he was down? Ah, Arjuna, why are you hiding behind the pillar? First you hide behind a eunuch, then you crouch like a lizard in the cracks of the wall! What a warrior you are, my friend! Aswathama cut off the man’s head.

Aswathama advanced on the last two. A burning pole fell behind them. With a swing, Aswathama cut off both their heads. Then he ran out screaming, “Suyodhana, we have won the war!
Dharma
has won! I have won the war for you. The Pandavas are dead! I killed them. Where there is
dharma,
there will be victory.”

An owl sat pecking out the eyes from Iravan’s head. As Aswathama ran towards Suyodhana, screaming victory, it gave a hoot and vanished into the night.

Kripa ran into the hut that and looked at the five slain bodies. “Oh, Shiva! He has made a terrible mistake,” he whispered, horrified by what he saw. He ran into the fiery night calling for Aswathama. Kritavarma turned the bodies over to examine them and felt panic and guilt overcome him. They would now be hunted like mad dogs and slain. He was sure of it. He ran out and mounted a horse that had strayed and galloped off towards Dwaraka. The Nagas stayed back to butcher the last of the men and women in the camp. Drunk on blood-lust and euphoria, they danced as the fire blazed around them.

Kripa caught up with Aswathama and grabbed his shoulder to stop him. “Uncle, I must see Suyodhana and break the good news.”

“Fool! You have not killed the Pandavas, but Draupadi’s sons! They will come after you. Run for your life if you want to live to fight again. I am going to Hastinapura, to hide in the slums. Run to Vyasa’s
ashram.
Only he can save you.” Without waiting for a response, Kripa vanished into the night.

Surely Kripa was wrong? But Aswathama remembered their faces, how he had killed them so easily. They were teenaged boys, not seasoned warriors. He had known it when he killed them, but had tried to convince himself that he had killed the Pandavas, not their sons. Now, when Kripa had said the words, the magnitude of his crime hit him like a thunderbolt. ‘Oh, Shiva! What a heinous crime I have committed!’ Aswathama fell to the ground, his knees buckling under the burden of his guilt.

But the sound of a galloping horse caused his warrior instincts to become alert once more, wary of danger. No, he told himself, he had killed the Pandavas. Kripa was wrong.

Aswathama saw a warrior galloping towards the blazing camp. As the horseman neared, he saw Krishna’s grief-stricken face. Aswathama got up and ran on, stumbling over rocks and bruising his knees as he staggered through the dark. He had to meet Vyasa but he had to see Suyodhana as well. Aswathama stood panting under a tree. Night grew old around him and the greyness of a dreaded day crept in from the east. He was afraid of what the new day would bring. He hoped his friend was not dead. He had to hurry to the cold swamps of Samanthapanchaka lake. Perhaps it was unnecessary to say anything at all to his friend. It was best to let him go in peace.

***

When Krishna reached the Pandava camp, the Nagas had gone, leaving the ground littered with the lifeless bodies of men, women and beasts. Krishna surveyed the carnage as the sun rose behind him. He sighed. The nineteenth day was dawning and the earth was as blood red as the eastern sky. The war, which he had won with so much guile, looked so meaningless now. He saw a man sitting by the river, his head buried in his hands. Krishna walked towards Yudhishtra in silence. For the first time in his life, he had no words.

*****

76
   
T
HE
C
URSED

THE LAKE HAD TURNED CRIMSON
when Aswathama reached its banks. He dragged himself through ankle-deep mud, frightening the Sarus cranes in the rushes; into flying away with wide, flapping wings. He panted in exhaustion, stopping every few feet. He was not sure where he was bleeding from or where he was hurt. He called his friend’s name frantically, desperately swishing his sword left and right to cut down the swamp grass. Any moment they would come for him. Where had Suyodhana dragged himself to die?

Aswathama saw him half-buried in the sludge, lying on his back, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. Flies buzzed over Suyodhana’s face. When Aswathama reached him, he slowed down, afraid of the finality of everything. A trickle of blood had dried at the corners of the Prince’s mouth. As he approached with tentative steps, mice scurried away. The Brahmin collapsed to his knees near the man he had loved so dearly, the friend of his childhood and the brother he had never had.

“Suyodhana, wake up! I have killed them all!” Aswathama shook his friend’s cold body, afraid it was too late. He put his ear to the broad chest. Was there a flicker of life?