MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba)

by Ashok K. Banker

  Bhishma nodded. ‘I cannot argue with that. But under dharma, this form of marriage is equally acceptable. It is one of the eight known forms. And as your father and many others here will attest, it is a long time-honoured tradition to take brides by force. If any here is brave enough to stop me, I shall face him in combat and prove my worth. If not, then I assert my right to win these princesses for my ward Vichitravirya!’

  And with these words, he began walking again, dragging the princesses past the cordon of guards that stood and watched powerlessly as he went upto his chariot. Lashing the girls to the reins-post so they could not escape while he drove, he started the chariot and began riding away at great speed. He had asked his sarathis to harness the strongest fastest horses in the royal stable, and the chariot raced away from Kashi with the speed of lightning. At once, most of the kings present began wearing his armour and calling for his chariot or horse in order to give pursuit. A few were wary enough of Bhishma’s reputation to decide to abstain from any direct conflict, but they were willing to follow to view the encounter.

  The king of Kashi’s chief minister asked him if the army was to be sent out to follow after the princesses.

  King Kashya watched the hundreds of kings who had come to participate in the swayamvara, clambering aboard their chariots and mounting their horses, clad in full armour, each accompanied by their retinue of personal guards, all wheeling and turning to leave the city, giving chase to the kidnapped princesses. ‘How many armies shall we send?’ he asked. ‘Besides, these were the men who were to compete for their hands in marriage. Let this be their test.’

  The chief minister was an old man and he saw the wisdom in the king’s words. In older times, this was in fact what a swayamvara meant: A melee in which all suitors fought to the death. Once the dust and bloodspatter settled, the women chose their husbands from among those left standing. All Bhishma Devavrata had done was to cut short the ceremonial pomp and regress the event to its older, more brutal origins. Now, all that remained was to wait and see who ‘won’.

  3

  They were less than a yojana out of Kashi when Amba called out triumphantly: ‘Here they come!’ Her sisters cried out with matching enthusiasm.

  Bhishma glanced back over his shoulder. Driving an eight-horse team required constant adjustment and a single error of judgement could bring down the entire team, most likely hobbling or crippling several of the horses. The journey to Hastinapura was a long one and he needed all eight to carry the combined weight of the chariot and four persons. It was the reason why he had not brought even a sarathi, preferring to take on this task alone rather than rely on any one. Alone was how he fought best. He allowed himself a single glance back.

  They had pursuers.

  An unfurling cloud of dust was visible on the horizon, perhaps half a yojana behind them. At that rate, they would catch up with Bhishma’s chariot very quickly. He had expected that. He didn’t know the territory here too well otherwise he would have picked a suitable vantage point and waited for them to come to him. He could still do that: this was a hilly region and there were any number of high spots which made suitable defensive sites. But he discarded that option in an instant: He had no desire to prolong this fight. Stopping and picking a spot could easily turn into a long siege. His pursuers had only to surround him and keep overwhelming him with force of numbers. He would not lose in the end but the princesses would likely end up dead as a result, if not from the crossfire then from starvation, thirst or exposure.

  So he chose to ride on, increasing speed. Forcing the enemy to come to him and fight him on the run. Few kshatriyas could fight well from a chariot and it would weed out the ineffectual and incompetent. Those that remained would have to use their best efforts right away or risk being outpaced. This way, he would force the fight to begin and end quickly, reducing the risk to the princesses to a minimum.

  The princesses took his increase of speed to mean the exact opposite, of course, as they would.

  ‘See, Ambika, Ambalika,’ said the eldest one with the sharp tongue. ‘He is too cowardly to stand and fight, so he tries to run away. He does not realize that Shalva will catch him no matter how fast he rides!’

  Bhishma wondered who this Shalva might be, but knew better than to speak just then. He focussed his attention on steering the team across a rocky path, trying as best as he could to avoid one of them stepping on the fist-sized rocks that lay strewn about everywhere.

  They took his silence to mean fear as well. ‘You speak truly, Amba,’ said the third sister Ambalika. ‘It will not be long now before we are saved and can return home.’

  Bhishma smiled at that. He finished negotiating the rocky path and saw that the way ahead was clear for a good few miles. ‘Is that what you wish?’ he asked, speaking loudly enough to be heard above the sound of the horses and the chariot and the wind. ‘To return home…and continue the swayamvara?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Ambika, the middle one. ‘For that way we have pride of choice and dignity!’

  Bhishma laughed at her pomposity and naivete. ‘You foolish girl! If you really wish to have pride and dignity, you would not have a swayamvara at all. You would simply choose your man and marry him. That is true freedom of choice.’

  They exclaimed at the absurdity of this suggestion. ‘How would we know if he is the best at arms or not?’ asked the eldest again, her beautiful brown eyes flashing angrily.

  Bhishma had to admit she was the most attractive of the three, if also the most shrewish. ‘Why should a man only be best at arms to be a suitable husband? Can he not simply be a good man? A loving, caring, sensitive, educated, intelligent man?’ He was describing Vichitravirya although she did not know it.

  She wrinkled her nose at him as if he had suggested she marry a bird or a fish instead of a man. ‘A man who cannot best others at arms to prove his love is not fit to be my husband,’ she said haughtily. ‘Or the husband of either one of my sisters!’

  Bhishma laughed long and hard at that. She did not understand why he laughed and turned away, after shooting him a last smouldering look of fury. He was surprised to find himself provoked, perhaps even a little aroused by that look. But he had long since mastered his senses and desires and his arousal was more by way of a faint memory of what arousal had once been rather than the actual sensation. Still, it took him by surprise, to encounter a woman who evoked even the memory of that feeling within him. He thought it would be a fine thing to see this one, Amba, eat her words and accept that she was wrong. And he also thought that she would be a difficult but strong wife for Vichitravirya.

  Their pursuers caught up with them after another yojana. Bhishma felt them coming by the change in the vibrations from the chariot. There were at least a hundred of them in the first group itself, with others forced to follow only due to the limitations of the terrain. He felt also that several would be taking different routes to try to cut them off at various points, some to lay ambushes ahead. He grinned to himself. It would be an interesting journey home, that was certain.

  He bent to pick up his bow, to string it, and sensed one of the princesses watching him balefully. He glanced at her: It was Amba, of course. She turned her eyes away when he caught her looking and he sensed that she had been sizing him up, evaluating him as a warrior. And perhaps something more.

  ‘Who is Shalva?’ he asked casually as he strung the bow. The effort didn’t exert him at all, and he noted the way her eyes narrowed at the ease with which he bent the longbow and strung it deftly.

  She did not answer at once. He waited, not pressing her, acting as if the question hardly mattered to him, which in fact it did not.

  ‘He is the one who would have won me,’ she said shortly, then looked away as if regretting having answered. But something occurred to her and she turned back almost at once. ‘And will do so even now,’ she asserted vehemently.

  ‘He shall certainly have his chance,’ Bhishma replied jovially. ‘But do not judge him too harshly if he fails. Win
ning at arms is not the only victory.’

  She stared at him as if he had spoken a foreign language instead of common Sanskrit. ‘Of course it is!’ she said indignantly. ‘You only say that because you are afraid you will lose and be killed!’

  He smiled sadly at her. ‘There is much you do not know about the world, princess Amba,’ he said. ‘And I am one of those things.’

  She stared at him in complete incomprehension. Then, frustrated, she turned away again and ignored him. She spoke to her sisters and all three of them looked back and watched as the dustcloud following them coalesced into recognizable forms.

  Bhishma counted at least four score chariots hard on his heels. Of them, about two handfuls would reach arrow range in moments. And one of them, a bright shining gold-inlaid chariot that reflected the late morning sun’s rays like a mirror, was far ahead of the pack, already within arrow range and gaining fast. He wondered why that forerunner had not started firing arrows yet then realized the reason: He is afraid of hitting the princesses by mistake.

  He smiled to himself. That was one of the things he had hoped for when he decided upon this plan. At least for now, the desire to prove themselves superior warriors was still outweighed by their desire to gain wives. It was when that balance shifted to the former desire that the real fighting would commence.

  The forerunner drew closer and as he approached, the two younger sisters exclaimed and turned to their elder sister, smiling. ‘There he comes! We knew he would come!’

  Out the corner of his eye, Bhishma saw Amba smile. She sensed him watching her covertly and glanced at him. He turned to look at her and she turned away at once, but not before he had seen the uncertainty clouding her beautiful brown eyes. She is intelligent enough to know that this will not be as simple as she would like it to be. Or else I would not have been able to abduct her and her sisters in the first place, from under the very aquiline noses of several thousand armed men in the heart of her own homeland.

  Yes, this one would make a very good wife for Vichitravirya, he thought. He only hoped that Vichitravirya would be able to keep her in control.

  The thundering of chariot wheels other than his own grew steadily until the forerunner was only a few score yards behind. When the distance between them had reduced to three score yards, Bhishma saw sunlight flash on something metallic as it left the chariot and rose into the air in a bowing arc. ‘Keep your heads down,’ he told the three princesses matter-of-factly. ‘And don’t get in my way.’ He looked at each of them in turn, making sure their eyes met and he communicated his seriousness. ‘Don’t even try,’ he said, his voice steely. ‘Even if one of you survives the trip, that will be acceptable to me.’

  He saw their eyes widen as they realized what he meant. All their lives they had encountered only men who obeyed their every command or desired them intensely enough to do as they desired. He was probably the first man who didn’t care if any of them lived or died.

  The javelin was beautifully launched, taking into consideration the respective speeds of both chariots, the wind factor and the precise location of the target. Bhishma estimated that it would land precisely on his back, punching a hole through his rib cage and bursting his lungs, to explode out of his chest. The wound would be a mortal one, instantly fatal. There would be no escaping it. And due to the nature of the road, he could neither swerve the chariot to avoid it, for fear of striking against one of the many large boulders bordering the road on either side, nor leave the reins for fear of the horses veering slightly off path and the chariot striking the same boulders. Every team has a leader who tends to pull the team in his direction slightly. Bhishma’s team leader was on the foremost row, on the extreme left corner. If he left the reins untended, the chariot would move to the left slowly but surely.

  So he did the only thing he could. Waiting until the last instant, judging the tragectory of the falling javelin exactly as the thrower himself had done, he reached out at precisely the right instant, and snatched the falling missile out of the air. The sound of the heavy wood slapping hard into his palm was shockingly loud, even above the thundering of the horse hooves and chariot wheels. And the force of the impact was enough to jar him to his heels. But he caught it perfectly, the deadly metal coated point barely inches from his back.

  He lowered the chariot and turned to glance at the princesses. They were gaping wide-eyed at his hand, the one holding the javelin.

  ‘Sisters, did you see…?’ asked the youngest one.

  They nodded dumbly, too stunned to speak.

  Bhishma grinned at them, then sent the javelin flying back the way it had come, but at a direct trajectory. The missile flew back as straight as an arrow shot from a bow, and passed within a hairs breadth of the lead pair of horses drawing the forerunner’s chariot, startling them into loud whinnies, to embed itself in the front armour plate of the chariot. The chariot shook with the impact and the man driving it stared down with eyes that showed white even at this distance, realizing what Bhishma intended him to realize: that he had deliberately thrown the weapon to warn away, not injure or kill.

  ‘The next one will go through your chest,’ Bhishma murmured, and turned back to mind his reins. He had only taken his eyes off the road for a few moments, and yet the team leader had begun dragging them leftwards. He straightened them out as he heard a familiar whistling sound that could mean only one thing.

  ‘Arrow shower,’ he sighed.

  He raised his bow and without even turning back this time, loosed a single arrow.

  Then he continued driving the chariot without looking back.

  4

  Amba had never seen a warrior like the man who called himself Bhishma Devavrata. What sort of name was that, anyway? Bhishma? Terrible one? Well, it certainly fit him. He was terrible, monstrous, awful. The nerve of the man, to storm into her father’s city and abduct her sisters and her away while every suitor who desired them watched helplessly! What audacity! And the way he had spoken to her father – she had seen her father’s face change when he announced his name and dynasty. She knew of the Puru dynasty and the Bharata race too. In a sense, they were the mother race of all who lived upon the sub-continent. Even she, a Kaushalya, was a Bharata. But the Purus were the core tribe of the original Bharatas, the descendents of Sudas via Bharata, son of the legendary Shakuntala and Dushyanta. And their nation was one of the most powerful, widest, and richest. Had their name been called during the recitation of suitors participating, she would have felt a thrill of excitement at being desired as the wife of such a great House. But to be abducted like this was humiliating and degrading! She had prayed for Shalva, her beloved, to come and slaughter this impudent bearded giant and cut off his head…or worse.

  But then she had seen the way he caught the javelin. She had never witnessed anything remotely like that before. She had seen a man catch a javelin once, but that had been on an open field, the man had been able to watch for the javelin’s approach and adjust his body to catch it. This Bhishma fellow had been driving a chariot team of eight horses, looking ahead, and he had simply stuck out his hand and caught the javelin as it fell on his back. How was such a thing even possible? How could he have seen and judged its approach so perfectly, and how much strength did it take to stop a flung javelin like that? She could hardly imagine. It was a godlike feat, the kind written about it in the fables one read in the puranas and itihasas. Something that Indra once did, or Varuna or Vayu.

  Now, she watched with wide eyes as he shot a single arrow upwards, this time not even glancing back once.

  What impudence! How could anyone possibly aim an arrow without seeing? By sound alone? What if he misjudged? There were so many factors to consider, it was not remotely possible that he could hit his mark. Even if he didn’t care whether or not he hit – even if he was simply shooting blindly to dissuade the pursuer – what about the arrows shot by Shalva that were now falling towards him, only an instant away from killing him.

  Yes, arrows. Plural.
r />   For Shalva had loosed his legendary astra, the Hailstorm, as he called it. A single thick arrow that split open during flight to divide into numerous smaller darts, each deadly enough to punch through armour and deal a serious injury if not a mortal blow. It took great strength to simply loose such an arrow, and a special bow that required three men’s strength to bend and string. And once shot, Shalva had claimed, it never failed. He had downed entire companies of enemy soldiers with that arrow. He had even demonstrated it once to her, showering an area three yards square with scores of tiny deadly black darts.

  Amba had never expected to see the same weapon deployed at her.

  If even one of those strikes me or my sisters in a vital organ, she thought as she watched the hail of missiles descend towards her, we will surely die.

  She realized that Shalva must know that. Which meant that he had chosen to loose it anyway, risking her lives and the lives of her sisters, in order to stop their abductor from getting away.

  Stupid man, she wanted to scream.

  But then Bhishma had loosed his single arrow.

  And as it shot up, she found herself unable to take her eyes off it, even though the Hailstorm would strike down in an instant.

  Bhishma’s arrow rose up and burst into a hundred fragments.

  Each of the fragments flew sideways, parallel to the surface of the earth, like a flock of birds that rose upwards then suddenly split off to go their separate ways.

  The fragments of Bhishma’s arrows sliced through the Hailstorm.

  Amba watched in disbelief as the fragments cut each of the several black missiles into half, rendering them harmless as well as halting their progress.

  The chariot thundered on, and the pieces of Shalva’s fabled Hailstorm clattered to the dusty road behind the chariot, useless pieces of metal and wood.