The Ocean's Own

by Nandini Sengupta

  The next day dawned bright and clear, the sky was an unspoiled blue, the sea a shimmering ripple of calm. Harisena had positioned our catapults through the night and at first light the bombarding began. Boom! The shots hit home, exploding the early dawn serenity into a thousand smithereens. The blasts drowned out the twittering of the sparrows, the shrill cries of the jungle babbler and the lovelorn calls of the cuckoo – the otherwise everyday sounds that filled the air at daybreak. Instead, screams filled the air, elephants trumpeted, horses whinnied, temple bells tolled madly telling the citizens that they were under attack. The smell of sizzling smoke, charred wood and burning flesh filled our nostrils. Weapons clanged and frenzied footfalls ran helter-skelter, some rushing towards the city centre to put out the fire, others charging towards the gates to mount a counter attack. Among all the mayhem, we could see the orange flames gaily leaping from tower to tower, fanned by the morning sea breeze and helped by the complete pandemonium in the city.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. The catapults kept up their relentless bombarding. Before long, the city was a blazing inferno, spewing thick black smoke that hung low like a rain cloud above us. Kanchi had woken up to its worst nightmare. As the fire leapt higher and spread further through the city, the terrified citizens ran towards the southern gate facing the river. That’s when our snipers, waiting mid-stream on light coracle boats, unleashed their arrow shower, felling the first crush and forcing the rest back into their blazing city. With no water from the river to put them out, the flames grew stronger and leapt higher towards the dawning sky.

  For a while, the fire and the shots threw Kanchi into such disarray that apart from a few disjointed arrow showers by the rampart guards, there was no concerted counter-attack from the city troopers. Then we saw the northern gates open, slowly, labouriously, probably expecting a mad rush from our side towards the city.

  I signalled my men to hold back. I had no desire to rush in and allow the rampart guards to greet us with boiling oil and boulders. It would be much better to let their cavalry charge out towards us instead. That way, we got to choose the when, where and how of the attack. We had decided on our tried and tested Garuda vyuha formation, with my horsemen forming the beak and head while the archers made up the wings. We had strewn kiluvai thorns just outside the city gates in the north. The southern side was fenced by the river, the east was the sick bed and the west had the largest body of our men camping right in front of the gates. Harisena and I had reasoned, correctly as it turned out, that when the Kanchi troopers stormed out in battle frenzy, they would choose the northern gate expecting a quick successful raid, given the smaller cavalry force stationed there. And that’s exactly how it happened.

  They charged out like madmen, crazed as much by fear and fury as by the poppy-seed laced milk that all warriors drink after they take the blood oath. The charge was greeted with a furious arrow shower from our Garuda wings as the cavalry beak and head pulled back, sucking the enemy in. The kiluvai thorns did a wonderful job, hobbling the horses and throwing men to the ground. As they scampered to their feet, our poisoned arrows found easy targets among men and beast, reducing them to a howling, mangled heap and turning the area into an obstacle course for those who came after them.

  The second charge was even more furious. The Kanchi troopers rode out in frenzy, trampling over their own fallen men and horses, and heading straight for our waiting cavalry beak. We held on till the last minute, spears at the ready, holding rank till their horsemen rode right into the vyuha and were trapped by it. I could feel my men trembling – it’s easier to rush out and take on the enemy allowing the adrenalin to drown out the fear. It’s much harder to stand back, luring the enemy right into your arms.

  I heard them count under their breath – seven, six, five, four, three, two, one … WHAM. It was like being struck by lightning and for a few blinding moments of concussion, everything became a jumbled blur. When the scene slowly rearranged itself into a clearer picture, I got an idea of the hysterical bloodletting that was unfolding around me. The Kanchi troopers had rushed pell-mell into the belly of the vyuha. The first wave impaled themselves on our line of waiting spears but these were quickly jostled and trampled out of the way by the second, third and fourth wave. The fighting was frenetic and frightful. Here a sword ripped open a man’s belly, there a knife dug itself into an unguarded flank, splashing blood that turned the ochre uniform a deep bloody red. Right next to me, a Kanchi trooper trying to lunge at my horse suddenly froze; too stunned to realize he had an arrow buried in his throat. He hiccupped blood and slumped on his horse spurring the animal forward, further into the impenetrable vyuha. The air stank of fear and faeces, men pounced and grabbed, pierced and pummelled, banged and battered their way in a horrific orgy of bloodlust. Screams of anguish mixed with drug-crazed war cries drowned out the sound of the conch shells and the steady thump, thump, thump of our battle drums.

  My men, sane enough not to want to lose their lives, did what they do best – follow orders. They pulled back, allowing the Kanchi charge to enter the heart of the vyuha and then they attacked. Hard. Steel clanged with steel as Asi swords danced in the morning sun, the light glinting off their beautifully carved blades. Axes swirled in a tandava dance worthy of Natraaj himself, keeping pace with the deadly swipe of the Khadaga broadsword. It was one almighty crush. Eyeballs rolled. Teeth snarled. Lips curled. Spittle sprayed. Men hacked, crushed, lunged and tore at each other. The Kanchi troopers fought well. But our vyuha formation was tight enough to confuse them about the strength of our cavalry backup. Before long, they were splintered, surrounded and slaughtered. Not one of the 400 who rushed in survived. It was a glorious victory but the bloodiest one I had ever seen.

  In the middle of the melee, Harisena galloped up towards me and gave the news. ‘There’s a breach on the eastern wall, sire,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent, I will lead the charge,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s the infected area,’ said Harisena. ‘You can’t go in there. We can’t endanger your life.’

  I stopped short. ‘I cannot ask my men to die for me if I am not prepared to do the same for them,’ I said. ‘Pox or no pox, I will lead the charge.’

  Harisena’s face lit up with a smile as he bowed out. It was a rare smile, given how sombre my friend had turned all through this storm-battered, fever-infested southern campaign. The old banter that kept me company in Mathura had all but disappeared here. Harisena looked care-worn and weary, as if he was fighting against his will. I knew he was against my idea of the digvijay and felt I had chosen the worst possible time given Datta’s condition. Also, since these southern monarchs, unlike the Nagas, had neither rebelled nor molested us in any way, he didn’t see my logic in forcing them to bend to the Garuda protection. He wasn’t convinced in the war councils in Pataliputra and the year-long campaign did nothing to make him change his mind. Worse, he was completely if silently against my intimate relationship with Angai. As young men, Harisena and I had enjoyed enough romps in the courtesan quarters of Apara for him to shrug away any feminine company I may have sought out for myself during the campaign. But Angai was no faceless harlot procured for the occasional night of pleasure. Harisena resented my closeness with her, struggled to make sense of it, and blamed me for the heartbreak he knew it would cause Datta. I could see he missed the old me and the open friendship of equals that we had once shared. He couldn’t trust my judgment when it came to Angai and didn’t know how much it would impact my judgment with regard to Kanchi. In his mind, I was slowly turning into a stranger. But, on the eve of this bloody battle, he was simply glad to get his old friend back.

  I charged towards the eastern gate, galloping into a scene of unbelievable destruction. The ground beneath was a pile of flesh and bones. Torn limbs, crushed skulls, spilled intestines, mauled bodies lay strewn all over, some dead, some dying. The ground had turned into a slushy bog under the feet of our elephant and cavalry corps. Kanchi’s brown-red earth had turned a deeper shade of crimson.
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  The severed heads and impaled bodies of the rampart guards told me Kanchi had not expected an attack on this wall and was probably relying on the pox to keep us away. The small company of rampart guards stationed there had been taken by surprise as our elephants and horsemen burst through and it had been a pointlessly one-sided slaughter – as quick as it was brutal. Flies already buzzed around the bloodied heads and trunks and I was thankful for the turban cover on my nose which helped keep the stench at bay.

  I spurred my horse towards the heart of the city, taking in the devastation caused by the catapult bolts. Here and there, the slow burning thatch on the huts that had been reduced to rubble was still spewing black smoke. The streets were deserted as we rode through, houses and shops on either side damaged first by the fire and later the elephant charge. What hadn’t crumbled had been set ablaze. Here and there we saw stray signs of the struggle – a broken toy cart lying forlornly by the road, glass bangles crushed under horse hooves, torn garlands still hanging by a thread on doorways burnt to cinders, the rice flour Kolam patterns at doorsteps half-wiped out by frightened footsteps leaving behind just a smudged impression on the ground.

  At first glance it looked like there was no more life remaining in the city. Then I saw her, picking her way carefully through the debris, a scrawny figure surrounded by devastation. She couldn’t have been more than five or six summers old. Covered in dust and soot, her wild curls were tied into two scraggly plaits and her nervous eyes flitted from face to face looking for a reason to run. I cupped my hands to my mouth and called out, ‘Come closer, little one. Don’t be afraid. We won’t hurt you.’

  She hesitated for a moment and then walked up. I saw a small oval face, grime and tear-stained, and two large fear-filled eyes trying hard not to cry. Suddenly this nameless child reminded me of Datta as she was when I first met her, a terrified motherless child in a palace full of whispers. Her cold fingers had wrapped themselves over mine and held on. Was this child looking for a hand to hold?

  I slid off the horse and knelt down in front of her. ‘Are you lost, little one?’ I asked.

  She shook her head slowly, looking dazed, as if she had no idea where she was or what was happening around her.

  ‘Where’s your family?’

  ‘At home,’ she said simply.

  ‘And where’s home?’ I asked.

  She pointed to what must have once been a mud-and-brick house. It was now a heap of rubble, angry flames still licking the thatch roof that had come crashing to the ground.

  ‘Trapped underneath?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  I motioned a few of my men towards the wreckage. ‘See if you can dig them out,’ I ordered. ‘Hurry. They could still be alive.’

  I saw a flash of confused resentment in their eyes. They were soldiers after all. Offering relief to the enemy wasn’t something they were used to doing. Why try to save those we’d worked so hard to kill?

  I turned towards the little girl. ‘You mustn’t wander outside, little one,’ I told her.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a big fight going on and you could get hurt.’

  Suddenly her eyes filled up with tears and I could see the tiny body trembling. ‘But I am scared. I can’t find her. She must be lost,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ I asked.

  ‘Kutty,’ she said.

  ‘Your sister?’

  She looked at her dusty toes and shook her head. ‘My parrot. She flew away when the fireball hit our home.’

  ‘She will come home when things become quieter,’ I said.

  ‘But our home is gone,’ said the child. ‘She won’t know where to return to.’

  I looked away, not knowing what I could say to make her feel better and not wanting to meet her gaze. I wasn’t squeamish about war. Like all warriors I thought of it as nasty but necessary. I didn’t enjoy the killing, but I had never had a problem explaining its rationale to myself. But this scrawny child looking for her pet bird had done what years of hard fighting could not. Suddenly none of what we were doing made sense to me any more. I had brought a proud and beautiful city to its knees, but it didn’t feel right this time. I looked around and saw confused impatience on the faces of my men. I let go of the little girl and pulled myself up.

  ‘If I see her, I will send your bird back to you,’ I said.

  She looked up at me, her eyes filled with despair. Then she turned around and walked back to the burning thatch under which her childhood now lay buried. Suddenly, my meticulously planned battle game, the great southern digvijay, all the highs and lows of our campaign, all of it seemed utterly futile. All that really mattered was that the child found her pet bird in a city that had seen so much death that it no longer cared about living.

  I rode away from my conscience towards the heart of the city where, on the palace grounds, Vishnugopa had gathered the last of his remaining city troopers for one final face-off. This was a symbolic gesture at best. The city had fallen. Its people had fled our invading army by slipping out of the breach in the walls. They hid in the paddy fields to the north and west, or the coconut groves beyond, waiting for their regent to accept defeat. The once-bustling Kanchi now looked deserted. As we galloped down the narrow brick-lined streets and turned a corner, we came upon a small public square, occupied by what looked like a 100 of our imperial guards, their ochre uniforms sweat- and blood-stained from battle. They were crowding around something or someone. Curious, I closed in for a better view. And that’s when I saw her.

  Angai.

  She was fighting on foot and without her sword. Her armplates were gone, her breastplate shattered, rhythm broken. She looked tired from exhaustion and the loss of blood. She was simply fending off the circle of attackers with her whiplash and staff. Without her sword, she couldn’t attack and they were too many anyway. My men had made a circle around her, jeering at her, calling her names. ‘Witch. Whore,’ they screamed. She seemed not to notice or care, keeping away the baying of the enemy with her blinding whiplash. Still acrobatic, still fierce, still fighting.

  In the middle of that hubbub, I managed to catch her eye. She looked straight at me for a moment, as if willing for me to intervene. But just as I leaned forward to spur my horse towards the melee, I saw the tilt of her head. Gentle. Almost unnoticed. As if she half-agreed but not quite. Her eyes repeated the message. ‘Go,’ they said. ‘I don’t need you to fight my battle for me.’

  I held her gaze for a moment more and then pulled up the reins. My horse whinnied. I turned away and galloped towards Harisena and back into the heart of the battle, leaving Angai to her fate.

  We rode into what, at first glance, looked like a stampede. The palace grounds crawled with soldiers, the ochre uniforms of my men contrasting with the bright red of the Kanchi royal guards. There was furious fighting going on all around me. I saw Harisena in one corner, wielding his heavy Parashu battle axe with both hands, leaving a deadly trail of dismembered limbs and decapitated heads around him. Vishnugopa was at the other end of the melee, swinging his sword and metal whip with dazzling speed as he took on the commander of my infantry corps, General Ananta Varman’s younger brother, Kuber Varman. A light-footed and athletic man, Kuber was doing a quick-step dance around Vishnugopa, staying just outside the reach of his hissing sword blade and teasing him with his own Asi tip. Although a formidable warrior, he was not used to the acrobatics that years of Silambam practice would have earned Vishnugopa. As a result, Kuber’s nicks seldom came home to hurt and Vishnugopa was fast clearing the space around him of ochre uniforms to prepare the grounds for a face-to-face confrontation.

  My first impulse was to use my long bow and simply take Vishnugopa out. I disliked the man thoroughly and with him gone, this bloodshed would also come to an immediate end. But then I realized what such an intervention would do to my reputation. Stealth kill is adharma, particularly when a man is busy fighting someone else. It reeked of cowardice. The more honourable
option would be to intervene in full view. I spurred my horse ahead, inching towards the belly of the battle through crashing sword blades, hissing spear throws, bare-knuckle fist fights, colliding shields , grunts and groans, screams and swears. I emerged on Kuber’s side just in time. Vishnugopa’s swinging whiplash had already wrapped itself around Kuber’s wrist, loosening the grip on his Asi. One tug and Kuber would be on the ground, ready to receive the edge of Vishnugopa’s sword blade.

  ‘Let him go,’ I bellowed. ‘You want to show us how well you fight? Come, take me on then!’

  I saw his grey eyes glint. ‘I bested him,’ said Vishnugopa through gritted teeth. ‘He will die.’

  ‘You kill him, I kill you,’ I said quietly. ‘Your city has fallen. Your troopers are dead. Your people have fled. If this is about honour, let’s fight honourably.’

  ‘You taught us there’s no honour in war,’ said Vishnugopa.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I am wasting my time.’ Before he could react, my Asi swished through the air and gashed a deep scratch on his wrist and fist. The unexpected attack gave him a jolt, a moment’s break in his concentration, enough for me to yank the metal whip out of his hand. Kuber, still trembling at how close he had come to death, quickly released himself from its grip and dropped to my feet, mumbling his gratitude. ‘Leave,’ I said to him quietly.

  Vishnugopa’s eyes blazed with anger.

  ‘We should have done this a long time ago,’ he said.

  I didn’t reply. I had my trusted Asi in one hand and the Khadaga broadsword in the other. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘Let’s play.’

  For a while, we circled each other, Vishnugopa swirling his short sword and cracking his metal whip, trying to gauge a break in my defence while I tried to take in his rhythm and figure how best to block the unusual angle of his sword thrust. He attacked first, pirouetting prettily before unleashing the double lash of the metal whip as well as his short sword, one trying to lasso my sword arm, the other trying to find a gap in my flank to bury itself into. I remembered my lessons with Angai and used my sword to block those unusual angles. One, two, three. I saw surprise in his eyes. Vishnugopa had entirely miscalculated my ability to take on the speed and acrobatics of his Silambam-inspired moves. He pulled back and then returned for more.