The Thirteenth Day (7 page)

Her shoulders were round and manly, her chest nearly flat. So was her torso. She’d learned to wear her hair short and stand erect. To talk with a deep voice and listen without sympathy. Before the battle, her family had sworn to kill Grandsire Bhishma believing that as the head of the Kurus, he was responsible for all the humiliation caused to her sister Draupadi. No one dared question her presence on the battlefield for she was formidable in her own right. And Drupada’s two-akshauhini-strong commitment to our cause left little room for argument.

‘You both killed him. You know that.’

Again, she replied absent-mindedly, ‘We all have our parts to play.’

‘So, what now?’

‘The war’s not over, you know. There’s a whole army on the other side.’

‘True. All the others are alive too…Drona, Bhagadatta, Duryodhana.’

‘Duryodhana?’

‘That’s what the bards are calling him these days. Clever, no? And Sushasana has become Dushasana. It seems their names are going to be ruined for posterity.’

‘I don’t think it’ll mean anything to them.’

‘I had thought you’d be happy for a change, Shikhandi. You’re going to be remembered for this forever, you know. Up there with Parashurama, Drona and Father.’

‘Forever, huh? I have no use for it. It’s a lie we keep telling ourselves to divert our attention from the pointlessness of our sad little lives.’

‘Relax, Shikhandi, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing…nothing, okay. Just leave. I’ll see you later.’

I left Shikhandi to her sulking and went back to my tent.

Grandsire had fallen. And I hadn’t even been close. Back in the centre, waiting for my chance like everyone else. I had fought the old man before, though. It had been the first day of the battle. I took my chariot in front and called him out. He came leisurely. Obviously thinking I was a brat he could dispatch with one swift, unforgiving lesson. Four arrows to his breastplate later, I think he changed his opinion.

As his chariot rattled away with him unconscious on the planks, I turned around and looked for my father; to see if he had seen me defeat the greatest warrior in Bharatvarsha. He had. But he just stood on his chariot without an expression on his face and then turned his chariot to another fight. I had been used sparingly after that for the past ten days, mostly confined to the centre or placed at the back—given just a lick of the action, but never quite a whole morsel.

I think Father was behind it. He was taking advantage of being a senior member of the council by keeping me away from the front, like so many others boys of privilege.

I would have to do something about it.

My tent was small and sparsely decorated. More a mercenary’s than a prince’s. A large armoury dominated the room in the corner, and a bed with a writing table next to it was tucked to one side. I began looking through the mail strewn haphazardly on the table. A letter from Dwaraka—Mother’s. She began, as usual, by berating the quality of attendants left to take care of the city. The palace is located near the sea, and without regular sweeping, sand infiltrates the wooden floors. Not one to be defeated by the laws of nature, Mother took it upon herself and several unwilling helpers to sweep the floors every second day.

Tough, as always.

My father, Arjuna, had taken my mother, Subhadra, a Yadava princess and Krishna’s sister, as his fourth wife. He spent most of my childhood in Indraprastha, making short trips every few years to check on my progress. Then, when he was sent out into exile, I didn’t see him for thirteen years. I never forgot him during those years, weaned as I was, on a steady diet of stories about his heroism. For Mother and Uncle Krishna, he could do no wrong. And the general ambition was that I would grow up and be just like him.

In the absence of my father, I was brought up by Uncle Krishna, my mother and Dwaraka herself, the new capital of the Yadava confederacy. The Yadava tribes had originally lived in and around the city of Mathura near the centre of Bharatvarsha. When Jarasandha, the king of Magadha, invaded the country with his hordes, we migrated and settled down on the edge of the western coast, eventually creating the kingdom of Anarta. The capital, of which, was a city by the sea that they called Dwaraka, meaning the ‘City of Gates’, to mark the Yadava exodus and serve as a reminder that in Yadava country everyone was always welcome. The Yadavas had done well here, ruling themselves in a unique fashion; as a confederacy of tribes where each tribe governed itself and its territories, but were also under the authority of a ruler, elected by a simple majority, currently Lord Ugrasena.

The confederacy had refused to take sides in the Kuru conflict, but offered their troops. The Kauravas had been able to secure the services of the elite Narayanis after the payment of a fat sum, while we were able to get troops of our own under Satyaki who, like Krishna, was close to my father and uncles.

I could smell sea salt in the parchment. All was well in Dwaraka, my mother had written. There had been a bit of a brawl a few days earlier between some female supporters of the Pandavas and some of the Kauravas. Mother had personally resolved the matter by pinching the ears of the chief parties. The matter was now forgotten and the womenfolk were back to crying in each other’s arms about the folly of the male ego. The rest of the letter contained instructions on not to polish my armour and keep it dull to avoid undue attention, and replace its straps every second day.

There was also a letter from my wife. Her writing was small and demure, much like Uttaraa herself. The baby was fine, she said, it was kicking hard.

Our marriage was a strategic alliance to bind the Pandavas and the Matsyas. And we had gone about our business on the altar with little fuss. She was a simple soul. I had grown fond of her in the little time we had spent together before the war. One of these days, I’d write back to her at length.

For now, I scribbled a few sentences telling her I was fine, and turned in for the night.

Before I drifted off, I said a prayer for a place in the front tomorrow.

A
carrier pigeon came early in the morning. A wing was damaged and a leg sheared off. Lucky to be alive, this one. Evidently, Kaurava snipers were up last night. I unrolled the grubby piece of parchment while Vishaka tended to the wounded pigeon. A set of intricate symbols were scrawled on it, barely legible. It was a dangerous thing in these times. Handwriting can cost you wars. I sat at my desk and worked out the code Dhristadyumna had so meticulously created with Krishna.

This couldn’t be right. I uncoded the symbols again. And again. I was almost tempted to ask Vishaka, peering from the corner of his eye, to try his hand at it.

‘Jade Love Cloud.’ The words were right. But it made no sense. ‘Love’ was the code word for me. Every evening after the war council in the Kaurava camp, Dhristadyumna had arranged for someone to inform us about the next day’s plan. He never revealed his source, and we never asked him; the information had proved most reliable. At least until now.

I walked over to Dhristadyumna’s tent. Krishna was there, cradled in a chair, playing with a peacock feather.

I showed them the parchment: ‘I got today’s message.’

Dhristadyumna nodded. The pigeons were supposed to be homed to him or me or Krishna. But only a few had come my way till now.

‘What news?’

‘Bizarre. actually. It says, “Jade Love Cloud”.’ I showed him the parchment, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. ‘I think they may have cracked our code. It must be a ploy to make us arrange our forces in a way that suits them. What do the other agents say?’

The code had been created from an obscure text on gemstones and Dhristadyumna’s childish imagination for intrigue. Each page of the book had been dedicated to a single stone, and we used this to refer to each day of the war. ‘Jade’ was page 11, which meant that the following actions would be perpetrated today. ‘Love’ was my name—for what reason, I will never know. And the final part of the message, ‘Cloud’ meant capture, as opposed to ‘Rain’ that meant kill and was seen more frequently.

This time, Krishna spoke, ‘Believe it or not, brother, for once, all the spies are saying the same thing. The Kauravas want you as their guest—“Atithi Devo Bhava—the guest is God”.’ He smiled wickedly.

Dhristadyumna spoke softly, ‘There are many messages flying around. Not all of them could be cracked overnight. But you have a point. Some of our codes may be compromised. I’ll, er…look into it tonight. Let’s plan to keep you on our side till then, right, brother? Come, the council is meeting now.’

We walked into the council tent and found everyone waiting for us. Drupada gave me a look that could have either meant ‘I’m sorry for you’ or ‘I can’t believe they want to capture you’ or maybe both. He turned around and said matter-of-factly to Dhristadyumna, ‘Shikhandi is not well. She won’t join us in the council. We’ll see her directly on the field.’

Bhima came to the point, ‘Right, so everyone’s here. The men need their orders. What’s the plan?’

Dhristadyumna spoke, ‘We have news from the other side that the main Kaurava thrust today will be directed towards Yudhishthira to…uh, capture him.’

Virata nodded his head. Krishna, still playing with his peacock feather paid no attention. Nakula and Sahadeva looked at each other as they always did when they didn’t know how to react. Arjuna pursed his lips and shrugged. Bhima clucked his tongue and scratched himself.

Drupada, characteristically, spoke up, ‘Yudhishthira? …Are you sure, putra? Maybe it’s a decoy.’

My father-in-law obviously had little regard for my ability to pose a threat to the Kaurava cause.

‘There is no reason to assume that. It has also been confirmed that Drona is leading the troops and Radheya is entering the field today,’ replied Dhristadyumna calmly.

The conversation teetered dangerously off the topic of my safety onto less relevant grounds.

Lord Drupada slapped his thigh, ‘Ha! Finally! I propose we promptly dispatch him to the netherworld. Lead young Arjuna, Bhima and Satyaki with two akshauhinis and put him down for good.’

Dhristadyumna went purple and didn’t know where to look. ‘Uh, sire. I think our efforts today must involve protecting Yudhishthira. We have received the same information from multiple sources. It must be true.’

‘Nonsense, boy, just go after Radheya. Leave Yudhishthira in the reserves with me and Virata. After all, what will we old folk do in the front, eh? We’ve had our day, now it’s time for you to play.’ He then turned to Bhima and beamed at him, ‘That’s poetry. I’m the next Valmiki, eh?’

I was about to glower at my father-in-law when I noticed Virata taking the trouble to do the same, though not so much on my behalf.

‘Drupada,’ he said in his nasal rasp, ‘it would be nothing short of catastrophic if one of the key stakeholders in this conflict were captured and taken back trussed up like deer. My humble advice, leave the day’s strategy to someone more competent.’

‘Getting too old to play war, eh Virata?’

‘They are better at it than me and you, I would imagine. Didn’t you lose half your kingdom to Drona the last time you “played”?’

Dronacharya had, many, many years ago, made us mount an offensive against the Panchala king as part of our siege exercises in the academy. It was not authorized by any account, but we ran circles around the Panchala troops. Guru Drona, as chief negotiator, made Drupada cede half his territories to the Kurus, more specifically, to him.

If Drupada was ever upset about that incident, he never mentioned it. He married his daughter to us and years later, when the time came for us to wage war on the Kauravas, he was the first to offer his support. His only condition (apart from land and economic benefits) was a chance to kill Drona.

The embarrassed silence that follows any argument that has overreached its ambition made its presence felt now.

Chekitana, the youngest in our tent or any war council in the near vicinity bravely tried to change the subject.

‘Sires, my spies tell me Prince Sushasana may be court-martialled for neglecting to protect Lord Bhishma.’

Drupada didn’t hear him, ‘He was able to because I had no great army, just a rabble of tribes. Let him try now. Let them all try. I’d even like to see you try.’ He stood up and glared at Virata.

‘Oh would you now? Sowing dissent minutes before a battle…just the way of the Panchalas.’ Virata made to stand up.

I saw Krishna, but he just looked at me and grinned.

I had to say something, ‘Lords, Lords! This is no time for anger, least of all over me. I agree, there are targets in this army to the Kauravas more valuable than myself—Arjuna, Bhima, Satyaki and even yourselves. There is a good chance of the information being false. And in any case, it would be selfish of me to even suggest that we hold back our troops for my protection.’

Drupada looked triumphantly at Virata, ‘Ha! Thus speaks a king. You have nothing to worry about boy, just leave your hide to my Panchalas. Dhrista, take Bhima and Arjuna and bring Radheya’s head on your shield.’

The peacock feather had failed to entertain Krishna, for he now got up and spoke, ‘Uncle, while your suggestion is valid, coming as it does from the years of experience you’ve spent on battlegrounds, there is one element we haven’t accounted for—Radheya himself. I know something of Radheya’s tactics. He is not the kind of Maharathi to jump into the fray until he knows his enemy. Guru Drona will be a bigger threat today. Radheya’s presence is merely meant to distract us. I believe that today Radheya will observe us from a safe distance waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And when he does, I can assure you it won’t be Arjuna or Bhima, but a warrior with less ability. It’s well documented that he used the same approach in his campaigns against the Kamboja cavalry, the Girivraja mountain men and many others. He makes an appearance late in the battle and strikes a minor prince or corps commander but never a general or even an Atirathi. The next few days will see him increase his participation on the field, but for today, we have nothing to worry about.’