AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

by Anand Neelakantan

  Drona stood up. “It will be a great honour if Lord Bhishma would permit me to fight by his side.”

  It took a few minutes for the Sabha to comprehend the implications of Drona’s simple statement. They had expected a sizzling speech from the Guru denouncing Suyodhana. Deafening cheers rose from all sides, drowning a few murmurs of surprise. Aswathama stared at his father in amazement, his heart thudding with happiness.

  Before Duryodhana could express his gratitude, a boisterous laugh resounded through the Sabha. Kripa walked in and went straight to his brother-in-law. “A sudden change of heart, Drona?”

  The Guru stared at Kripa in distaste and said coldly, “I am merely doing my duty.”

  “Oh, I thought you were trying to repay an undeserved fee,” Kripa chuckled. He turned to Suyodhana. “Will you recruit an old street dog into your army?”

  Suyodhana grasped the old master’s hands. He suddenly remembered the early days when Kripa had taught the young Kuru Princes, before Drona had come to replace him... How unpredictable the winds of war were! He had come to the Sabha with little hope after Yuyutsu’s defection, yet those he had always considered to be Pandava supporters were now flocking to his banner.

  “How about the Yadavas?” Kripa asked.

  “Yadavas? Krishna hates me. The entire Yadava army will be fighting against us.”

  “Hmm, you think so?” Kripa said, and then called, “Kritavarma!”

  The tall Yadava General entered and bowed to the King and Bhishma. Kritavarma addressed Bhishma in a clear voice. “Sir, the entire Narayana Sena has come to fight for dharma. Allow us to serve under you in your army.”

  Such bizarre things were happening! Suyodhana was at a loss for words. Krishna had lost control over his own army and they had defected to his side? Was there a trap here?

  “General Kritavarma, is Krishna aware of your decision?” Bhishma asked.

  “Sir, Lord Balarama himself asked me to follow my conscience and Krishna gave the Narayana Sena the option to choose. The majority chose to come with me.”

  “And Krishna did not object?” Suyodhana asked, still bemused at the turn of events.

  “When I informed him of my decision to side with you, all he said was, ‘Each one according to his own dharma’.”

  Suyodhana stared at Kritavarma. What was it about Krishna that he could not fathom? Krishna was an enigma.

  “Where is Lord Balarama?” Bhishma asked.

  “Sir, he is walking as a mendicant through the little-known pathways of our land, heartbroken. He has relinquished the throne.”

  Why had his Guru not sided with him, wondered Suyodhana. When so many great men had decided to fight on his side, thinking it was the right choice, why had only Balarama remained neutral?

  Bhishma cleared his throat. “The kingdoms of Pragjyotisha, Mahishmati, Avanti, Madhaydesa, Bahlikas, Kamboja, Sakas, Trilingas, Tusharas and many others, have offered alliances. The friendship of Anga, Gandhara and Sindhudesa, etc., remain firm; they will always stand by us. The kingdoms of the Southern Confederate, like Chera, Chola and Pandya, are expected to ally themselves with the Pandavas. Magadha also.”

  “Kalinga?” Kripa asked

  Bhishma looked at Karna. “The old King of Kalinga will be on the side of the warrior chosen by the Sun God.”

  “Karna is the chosen one,” Suyodhana said, smiling at his friend.

  “It is too early to predict which side Karna will fight on,” Bhishma said. There was a murmur of surprise all around. Surely there could be no doubt about that? Karna would stand Suyodhana’s friend unto death.

  “Sir, you insult me and my friendship with Prince Suyodhana.” Karna’s bright face darkened as he stood to his imposing height.

  “When a Kshatriya speaks, a Sutaputra ought to remain silent,” Bhishma replied coldly.

  “Pitamaha,” Suyodhana said, “why do you alone refuse to respect the great warrior that Karna is? Even the Sun God chose him as his own.”

  “Prince, you will have to choose between him and me. Wars are for Kshatriyas. This Suta is both immature and reckless. We saw it at Virata. Let him be content with driving a chariot.”

  Face aflame with rage and humiliation, Karna turned to walk out of the Sabha but Suyodhana grabbed his wrist. “Karna, do not go.”

  Karna looked into his friend’s eyes and asked, “Do you trust me to win the war for you?”

  Suyodhana faltered. If he chose Karna, he was sure to lose the support of both Bhishma and Drona. How many others would refuse to fight beside a Suta? Karna saw the hesitation in his friend’s face and deliberately prised Suyodhana’s grip from his wrist, one finger at a time. He bowed to all the great men in the Sabha and walked away.

  Bhishma sighed softly to himself. The deed was done.

  *****

  50 RELUCTANT WARRIORS

  “ULUKA, SEEK YOUR COUSIN’S BLESSINGS. You too, Vrika.” Shakuni’s voice startled Suyodhana. His uncle was beaming at him.

  “Why have you called your sons from Gandhara?” Suyodhana asked as he placed his hands on the bent heads of the young men at his feet.

  “Do you think Gandharan Princes hide behind their mother’s pallu when a war is on?” Shakuni asked, and then added with a smile, “Of course, Lakshmana Kumara is different.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle?”

  “Oh, we all enjoy his poetry. And what a voice he has!”

  Suyodhana’s face clouded with anger. Shakuni immediately replaced his smile with a look of specious concern. “Suyodhana, do not force the boy to do what he does not wish to. We are all here to bring you victory. The boy is his mother’s darling. Allow him to remain here. We can enjoy his verse once we have vanquished the Pandavas.”

  Shakuni left with his sons. Suyodhana remained standing, his face furrowed with worry.

  ***

  “He is the future ruler, Bhanumati. Why don’t you understand?” Suyodhana tried to keep calm. He did not want a discussion with his wife about their son.

  “I want to participate in the war, mother,” Lakshmana Kumara’s voice was low, fearing his father’s temper.

  Suyodhana sighed. ‘What am I going to do with such a boy?’

  “This is between your father and me, son,” said Bhanumati.

  “He is not a baby, Bhanu. He cannot hide in the palace and write poetry when the entire country is at war.”

  “My son is not going to fight your war and die. Let us have no argument about this.”

  “Do you not understand what is at stake?”

  “Mother, I wish to fight beside my father.” Kumara’s voice was soft but sure.

  “I have said no. Leave us. This is for your father and me to decide.”

  “Stay where you are, Kumara. Bhanu, he is a Kshatriya. Why do you insist on bringing shame upon him and me? Do you really wish to hear him being called a coward?”

  “It is better than calling him dead.”

  “He is the same age as Abhimanyu. Have you not heard the paeans the bards sing about Subhadra and Arjuna’s son?”

  “So that is it… my son is not as good as hers? I am not as good as...”

  “Enough! He is coming with me into battle, like a true Kshatriya.”

  “You are not going anywhere.” Bhanumati turned back to her son.

  Kumara shook his head at her gently and then moved to stand beside his father. “I am sorry, mother, but I must go. I cannot let down my father, the family, the country...”

  “What do you know about fighting, son? How will you face great warriors like Arjuna?” Bhanumati said, her voice cracking. She went over to her son and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I will do my utmost, mother.”

  “It will not be good enough. You will die. Do not go! You are the only one left to me.”

  “Bhanu, stop this!” Suyodhana went to stand in front of his son. But the defiance had gone from Bhaumati’s face and she looked vulnerable, like an injured sparrow. Suyodhana lifted her chin and looked into her w
et eyes. How beautiful she still was! “Bhanu, don’t you trust me? Don’t you believe me? Do you think I would allow any harm to befall him? He is my son too, Bhanu.”

  “I am afraid.” Bhanumati pressed her face to her husband’s chest.

  Suyodhana gently ran his hand over her hair. “So am I, Bhanu. So are all the fathers and mothers of Bharatavarsha. This will be the war to end all wars in our lifetime.”

  “He is all that we have. Why not give up your claim to the throne and avoid the war, Suyodhana?”

  “It is not about the throne or power, Bhanu.”

  “You are lying to yourself. Power is all that matters to you. You do not care what happens to me or our son.”

  “What do you want from me, Bhanu? That I allow the sons of my Aunt Kunti to ruin the country? I want people to remember me as the one who fought for them.”

  “Have you thought about what will happen if you fail?”

  “The country will sink into the quagmire of jati and varna.”

  “But have you thought about what will happen to you if you fail? You will be painted as the greatest villain who ever lived. Do you want that?”

  “Bhanu, fear of posterity cannot prevent me from doing what I know to be right.”

  “You talk as if you know you will lose.”

  “No, Bhanu, I will not lose. Dharma is on my side. Dharma never loses. Besides, Lord Bhishma, Guru Drona, Karna, Aswathama, are all there. How can I not win? Trust me, nothing will happen to our son. He too, must do this.”

  “My heart is breaking...” Bhanumati broke away from her husband and rushed from the room, weeping.

  Suyodhana sighed and turned to his son. He could not remember when he had last been alone with his son since the marriage fiasco. It was difficult to say it but he plunged on with what was on his mind. “Son, I had been harsh on you. I only learnt later that you were trapped. Valsala and Abhimanyu played a cruel joke on you and I believed them.”

  “Father, that is behind us. Let it remain there.”

  “Are you still in love with Valsala?” You need not try so hard to keep your emotions hidden from me, son. I know how it feels. Suyodhana wanted to put his hand on his son’s shoulder but it felt as heavy as lead. “When the woman you love leaves you, it hurts like the fires of hell. At first you think it will kill you, then time heals the wound. The scar always remains but it is no longer agony.”

  “Do you still remember her, father?”

  “Who?” Suyodhana snapped.

  “Abhimanyu’s mother, Aunt Subhadra.”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Has your wound healed, Father?”

  “Who has been feeding you with such nonsensical tales? I have been married to your mother for more than two decades. Ask her whether I have ever been unfaithful. I do not collect women like Subhadra’s husband.”

  “It was not my mother who told me about your love for Aunt Subhadra.”

  “Then who?”

  “Aunt Subhadra herself.”

  Suyodhana was dumbfounded. She had no right to do that. His throat became parched and something which he had buried deep within, began to hurt again. He did not trust his face to hide what he felt so he turned away from his son.

  “She wants to meet you, Father.”

  “Any of my subjects can meet me at an appointed time,” Suyodhana replied. He hoped his son could not hear the palpitations of his heart.

  “She wants to meet you alone. She has something to say that is very important.”

  “It is improper to meet another man’s wife in secret.”

  “She will be waiting for you by the temple near the river, tonight.”

  How could a father discuss his first love with his son? ‘Subhadra, you never left my heart.’ Instead, he smiled and asked, “Are you afraid?”

  Kumara knew his father had deliberately changed the subject. “Yes, I am. Only fools feel no fear.”

  It was certainly not the reply Suyodhana had expected from his son. Perhaps he had not taken the time to know him. “Don’t tell me you are doing it for me,” he said.

  “No. I am a Kuru Prince and we are a race of warriors.” Kumara’s eyes belied his words.

  ‘I do not deserve such love, my son,’ thought Suyodhana as he looked at his son’s gentle eyes and calm demeanour. Kumara walked away, leaving Suyodhana’s heart heavy with the emotions of both the past and the present.

  Subhadra would be waiting for him tonight. Suyodhana wished night would never fall.

  ***

  Iravan was nervous. The smoke from many cooking fires snaked towards the heavens. The idea of sneaking into the Pandava camp seemed more and more crazy as he neared the encampment. His cousin Khatotkacha had proved his worth by foiling the marriage of the young Kaurava Prince. He might even be invited by his father, Bhima, to fight. But did his own father, Arjuna, even know of his son’s existence, he wondered?

  The sun was a ball of fire above Iravan’s head but winter was sneaking into the shade of the trees. There had been no rains this year either and he was hungry more often than not. War would be a quick way to end the misery.

  “Halt, Naga! How dare you pollute this holy place?” Dhaumya’s bark made Iravan jump.

  “I...I am Iravan, son of Arjuna,” he managed to say.

  “What do you want?” Dhaumya asked tersely.

  Words deserted Iravan. Where was his father? His palms were sweating but he resisted the temptation to rub them together. “I have come to join my father,” he gulped.

  “This is not a hunting ground for savages. This is a Kshatriya war.” Dhaumya spat on the ground and instinctively Iravan knew he had walked into trouble.

  *****

  51 IRAVAN

  IRAVAN LIFTED HIS BOW AND DREW AN ARROW from his quiver with shaking fingers. Warriors turned their heads to see what the fraças was about, and some of them ambled over to watch. Iravan’s arrow soared high into the sky like an eagle and perched an inch below the fluttering saffron Pandava flag. He shot another arrow and then another, and another. Under the amazed gaze of the priests and Kshatriyas alike, the Naga drew the figure of a serpent with his arrows. Finished, he bowed to Guru Dhaumya.

  “Who taught you to shoot like that?” Dhaumya asked. The crowd of onlookers shoved each other to get closer to hear the answer.

  “My Guru, Ekalavya.”

  As whispers ran through the crowd like wind through grass, Iravan wondered where his father was. Had Arjuna seen him?

  “Son of Arjuna, do you wish to help your father win the war?”

  “I do, Swami,” Iravan said. The glimmer of hope made his voice tremble. He felt lightheaded.

  “Are you a brahmachari?” Dhaumya’s voice was as smooth as silk.

  “Am I... a what?”

  “You are not married?” the Guru snapped, losing patience.

  “No, Swami.” Iravan’s breathing quickened.

  “Are you willing to lay down your life for your father, Iravan?”

  “I am, Swami.” His heart thudded against his ribs.

  “Good.” Dhaumya turned to his disciples. “Make arrangements for the sacrifice. The most eligible man has offered himself.”

  There were angry murmurs among the Kshatriya warriors but they became silent when Dhaumya stood up. The priest walked away, keeping as much distance as possible between himself and Iravan’s polluting body.

  ***

  Someone poured water over Iravan’s head. It was freezing! Ganga water for his purification, someone said. The chanting of holy mantras rose on all sides and a priest placed a tilak on his forehead. A garland of red flowers was thrust over his head.

  “What is happening?”Iravan asked, but the rising crescendo of holy chants drowned out his voice. In some corner of his mind he felt a sense of pride; everyone was bowing to him. But his instincts screamed danger as he struggled to understand what was happening. Why were they dragging him like a goat? Oh no! He was to be sacrificed like a goat! Iravan tried wriggling away bu
t too many people pushed him towards the fierce idol of Kali and strong hands held him down at the sacrificial altar. The stone was slippery with blood. The severed heads of goats mocked him. The smell of blood and goat urine almost made him gag. Iravan felt dizzy and his limbs grew weak. ‘Ma Kali, what wrong have I done to these people?’ he asked from the depths of his desperation.

  “What is happening here?” Iravan’s heart missed a beat. He had heard that voice in his dreams. His father had come at last. Iravan struggled to get up and look at Arjuna, but he was shoved down.

  “To ensure our victory, this brave man has volunteered to sacrifice himself.” Dhaumya’s voice seemed to come from a distance, slurred and strained. They were going to sacrifice him! Iravan struggled to free himself. He did not want to die. He was too young to die.

  “A human sacrifice? He is just a boy,” Arjuna said to Guru Dhaumya.

  “He volunteered. Our tradition respects all customs. We are a tolerant people,” Dhaumya intoned unctuously and threw saffron powder on Iravan’s face. The boy coughed. His tears mixed with the powder, looking like blood.

  “Only barbarians such as the Nagas follow such customs.”

  His father’s words hurt Iravan more than the vice-like grip of his captor. His ceased to struggle and went limp. ‘He trapped me,’ Iravan wanted to scream but the words died in his throat as flowers and rice were pushed into his mouth.

  “He is trying to say something,” Arjuna said.

  Dhaumya placed his ear to Iravan’s mouth. “Oh, he is saying his last wish is for us to raise his severed head on a stake. Rather a strange request. The poor fellow believes his head will then witness the great war of dharma.”

  ‘No! I do not want to die. I came to help my father.’ Iravan spat out the rice and flowers. “Father, help me!” The mantras were deafening. The coldness of a sword touched the back of his neck, marking its striking spot. ‘My Guru Ekalavya only sacrificed a thumb. I should be proud to sacrifice myself,’ thought Iravan as he shut his eyes tight.

  “Wait! I know this boy, I know his face,” Arjuna said, but the sword had already fallen. The decapitated head of his son rolled towards his feet, its eyes staring at him in innocent surprise.