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 him
self 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 THE CURSED
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?
“Karna...Karna, you defeated them?” Suyodhana whispered. His swollen thighs had turned black; gangrene had begun to set in and his body burned with fever.
Aswathama was overwhelmed with emotion, Suyodhana was not dead. Then bitterness washed over hm. “Suyodhana, Karna did not win the war, I did. He had the opportunity to kill Yudhishtra, Bhima and the twins, but he did not, because he gave his word to the mother of the Pandavas. He gave away his armour so people would think he was a great man. He betrayed you for his own glory and still you speak only his name?”
“Who...are you?”
“Suyodhana, it is I, Aswathama. I have won the war for you, not Karna. Open your eyes. I have forsaken glory to do what no Brahmin or warrior should. I set fire to their tents and killed them in their sleep – a shameful thing, but I did it for you, my friend, and for my father.” He was not sure the men he had killed were the Pandavas or their sons, but Suyodhana need not know that in his final moments. But the weight of the lie lay heavy on Aswathama’s heart.
“Ah, Aswathama, where...is Karna?” Suyodhana opened his eyes
“Karna is dead, killed by Arjuna. You gave him everything, but he betrayed you.”
“Karna could never betray me, or you...“
“Oh, Suyodhana, do not die now when we have won. Tell me what I did was right.”
“You have betrayed...dharma, Aswathama.”
“Suyodhana, I did it for you...to avenge you...”
“Aswathama...no...” Suyodhana was delirious and in pain, struggling to form words as his life ebbed away.
“I have lived for you, Suyodhana. I have lived for our country. Do not call me a traitor.” Aswathama threw his arms across Suyodhana’s inert body, trying hard to fight back his tears. “Don’t go, my friend. We have a country to rule, with justice, equality and prosperity for all. We have a dream to live. Do not go and leave me alone.”
“You are still my friend...” Suyodhana’s words were barely a whisper. Aswathama bent his ear to Suyodhana’s lips to hear. “Aswathama, you are my dearest friend...after Karna.”
“After Karna, Suyodhana?” Aswathama looked up. The eyes that had once burned with passion, were closed forever. He gently placed Suyodhana’s head on the wet ground. The Crown Prince of Hastinapura had reached the end of his star-crossed life. A plentitude of gifts and sorrow had been his in equal measure. How fearlessly he had believed in justice for all, how fiercely he had fought against caste, yet he was powerless before the frailties of human pride. There was no man Aswathama had loved more, yet his friend’s last words hurt him more than all the arrows of Kurukshetra.
“After Karna...” Karna the glorious, Karna the Dharmaveera, Karna the man who died for his friend. Poets would sing of the friendship between the Suta and the Prince. And the poor Brahmin would be a forgotten footnote in the history of great men. Aswathama, the despised, the cursed, the man who killed his enemies in their sleep. The Brahmin bit his lip, clutching his hair. His dream had ended in a curse. No one wanted him, neither his dead friend nor the country for which he had dared the cold heights of Gandhara. Neither past nor future belonged to him. He looked at the man for whom he had lived, lying dead at his feet, and broke into sobs. A noble Prince should not be lying in the mud like this. It did not matter that Suyodhana had considered Karna a better friend; for Aswathama, there was no one left. He lifted Suyodhana’s head onto his lap and hugged his friend’s cold body.
***
Far away, Bhishma still lay on his bed of arrows. Soon, the sighs of the patriarch of the Kurus were drowned by the wailing of thousands of women dragging themselves to the battlefield. Some were old, shrivelled with age and despair; some were young, at the prime of their lives, and for some, life had been about to blossom before the war had cruelly crushed them. Some carried babies in their arms; some had young children sobbing behind them. They were searching for the bodies of their dear ones. Shrieks of shock rent the air as mothers identified sons, widows found husbands, and sisters saw brothers lying headless, limbless, crushed by the wheels of dharma. As the lament of the women rose to the heedless sky, vultures feeding on carrion flapped their wings in anger and left. They perched on the leafless branches of trees and watched, impatience in their glowing eyes. Jackals scurried away carrying chunks of meat and flesh they had torn from the corpses.
Aswathama watched the scene with indifference. Life and death held no meaning for him now.
“There he is! Kill him!” Dhaumya’s voice was shrill with relief.
They had found him and the end was near. Aswathama’s warrior instincts made him alert. No, he would not give up. Kripa had said it right. It was better to surrender and work again patiently towards their goal. If they caught him now, they would kill him before he could negotiate a surrender. He had to reach Vyasa’s ashram quickly.
“Suyodhana, I have to leave you but I will not give up. Aswathama will prove I was always the better friend to you, not Karna.” Aswathama whispered to Suyodhana’s cold body. Gently laying the Prince’s head on the ground, he rose and took to his heels.
Dhaumya stood in his path. Aswathama swung his sword at the old Brahmin without breaking his stride, turning to ensure that Dhaumya lay writhing on the ground. He cursed when he saw the old man sitting dazed in the slush, surrounded by his disciples. The priest had escaped
his sword by a hair’s breadth. Soldiers ran towards him, lances at the ready. Aswathama fled into the woods, his heart pounding against his ribs like a rabbit trapped in a snare.
***
Draupadi sat without shedding a tear. Yudhishtra tried to console her but felt overwhelmed himself by the loss of his son; his words lacked coherence and meaning. The five bodies were placed before Draupadi, unrecognisable and ghastly in death. Her sons seemed to accuse her, their eyes staring at her from blackened faces.
“Krishna Madhava, what is the use of winning this war when we have lost our sons? They have followed Abhimanyu to the abode of Yama. Is this our punishment for killing our sires and grandsires, Gurus and kin, through deceit? No, do not tell me about the inevitability of death and the immortality of the soul, Krishna. When one’s own sons are dead, such words offer no solace. They are consoling words to be uttered to others. Death is as real as life,” Yudhishtra lamented, hammering his forehead with his fist.
Krishna stood nearby, unable to find words to console the man who had become Emperor of Bharatavarsha just the previous day. Priests and other well-wishers stood in a huddle, not knowing what to do or say to console their Lord and the woman who had lost all her five sons in one night. The Pandava brothers stood alone, crushed by the weight of the tragedy.
Finally Yudhishtra stood up and called for his mother. Kunti arrived. She felt old and tired. She averted her eyes, not wanting to look at the charred visages of her once-handsome and vital grandsons. Dead. There was nothing left except death.
In a voice bereft of emotion, Yudhishtra asked his mother, “Who are these who lie stricken here by death, Mother?”
“Why do you torture me like this, Son?” Kunti asked, trying to suppress her rising sobs.
AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) Page 41