Bheem

by Jyotin Goel

  Ashvatthama’s body lay bleeding, face down in the shallow water at the periphery of the lagoon. The wash of the helicopter thrummed on the water’s surface like an eggbeater, dislodging the massive figure from the submerged sand. Something more was happening, though. The floating corpse seemed to be thinning at the edges, losing definition, almost as if it were dissolving.

  An optical illusion, Talwar reassured himself. Just blood clouding the water.

  The body was melting fast now, into the red soup that boiled around it. Only the head remained, wild hair flying in the wind. Talwar and Kohli looked at each other, flummoxed, and then peered down again at the bloody head ringed by scarlet water. The head dissolved, sinking into the water with astonishing suddenness. But, strangely, the chopper’s wash was not forcing the water away. Instead, it appeared to be spiralling inwards, pulled by an enormous centripetal force.

  That’s no illusion! Talwar was suddenly nervous.

  And now the water was rising like clay on a giant potter’s wheel, a column of water seeded with blood.

  Talwar clutched at the pilot. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ he yelled, shrill with panic.

  Kohli didn’t need persuading. He revved the engine and the chopper lifted away, flying east, instinctively heading home towards the mainland and the safety of the naval base. But the column of water was telescoping now, lengthening, widening. Like a giant python, it reared back and then shot forward, pursuing the fleeing copter, catching it above the east island. The serpent’s blunt top split into huge, malevolent, liquid jaws that engulfed the flying machine, instantly killing every electronic circuit on-board. In a way it was merciful. Talwar and Kohli died instantaneously, their lungs shredded by the tidal force of the wave, thus escaping a fiery death as the chopper crashed into the trees and exploded into a ball of flame. The lagoon, though, was placid again, its level significantly lower. The lashing serpent of water that had drained it had vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

  Aviva-Fein . . . Even as he surged through the tangle of trees, Bheem knew that he couldn’t protect her, not for long, not alone. The girl had inherited his warrior spirit but not his strength; she would not survive his imminent clash with Ashvatthama, no maanav of this era could. Her death would be the end of everything; even if Bheem were to win the battle then, he would have lost. He had to find a refuge for her, but where? The warrior knew that the hermitage was not a sanctuary. His grandsire had made that clear; he would not intervene, the girl could not shelter there. Bheem heard the roar of the helicopter exploding, knew instantly what would follow. Frantic, his eyes sought a bolt hole for Aviva-Fein, raked the riotous vegetation around—and paused.

  Ranchhod.

  He who flees the battlefield.

  The name Lord Krishna had worn with pride. Of course! Live to fight again. There was no safe haven on the atoll; therefore, there was only one solution: escape.

  Aviva retched and swallowed, holding nausea at bay as the warrior dipped and swerved at blinding pace through the knot of trees. She couldn’t understand it. They had plunged into the forest, attempting to reach the hermitage, she had thought, but Bheem had abruptly swung around and was now racing back to the lagoon and the shape-shifting monster that had attacked them. They emerged from the trees and halted on the gritty sand, the vaanar’s inert body two hundred metres away, marking the point where they had entered the forest just minutes ago. Bheem’s eyes swept the scene, his brain instantly recording and assessing what lay ahead: the pristine beach on which they stood, the blazing fire on the far island, the lagoon sparkling in the late-morning sun. And the enemy, leaning languidly against a mound of sand-sprinkled coral at the water’s edge, raising his head lazily to eye the duo emerging from the trees.

  ‘It’s an island.’ Ashvatthama’s smile was almost kindly, the condescending look of an elder talking to children. ‘And the sage has shut his doors. Where did you think you would go?’

  He is right, of course, Bheem thought. Rushing into the forest had been the act of an amateur, not an experienced warrior. He had let his fear for Aviva-Fein’s safety cloud his thinking. Now, however, he had a plan, a strategic objective: escape. There was a problem, though, one of the unforeseeable vagaries of battle. By sheer mischance, the enemy had positioned himself squarely across the route to their only way out: the underwater cave of Sesha Nag.

  So. This would have to be done the hard way, the life-or-death way. Bheem’s mind clicked swiftly through options:

  Objective remains the cave—which lies underwater. If we take to the water, the enemy prevails—he can become the water. Have to wait until the tide recedes—until the cave emerges from the lagoon.

  What had Saragha said? ‘The entrance will emerge today when the sun is an eighth past its zenith.’

  Bheem glanced at the sun, still an hour from its apogee. He almost grimaced in frustration but forced a grin instead—any display of weakness would only embolden the enemy. Bheem studied the sun, warming, life-giving, and something kindled in his mind. His eyes swivelled to the sun’s reflection, dancing on the water.

  The lagoon level! It’s much lower than it should be! The water has been drained!

  The warrior did not know how that had happened but he suspected that the helicopter burning on the far island had something to do with it. Suddenly, Bheem’s grin was no longer forced. The escape hatch—Ashvatthama himself had cracked open its door! Now, if only Bheem could hold him off for the remaining minutes the water would take to sink a few feet more, for the cave to surface.

  Aviva sensed the change in the warrior. Terror had ripped through her at the sight of the enemy, but now Bheem was looking at her, unruffled, encouraging.

  ‘I know I’m not much use here,’ she said, faltering, ‘but is there anything I could . . .’

  The warrior set her down. ‘You, and the child you carry . . .’ There was much that he wanted to say, but he found his throat choked, his heart too full. He gently placed his enormous hand on her head. ‘You will not be harmed, daughter. I will do all to prevent it.’

  Daughter—? The word was a surprise but, strangely, Aviva felt comforted.

  For a moment, Bheem gazed at her, and then his smile faded and his eyes glittered. ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘do not move from this spot.’ He turned and stepped away from her.

  Ashvatthama stared, incredulous. The muscle-bound ape had moved away from the girl! Was he serious? Did he plan to—?

  ‘You deliberately distance yourself from the girl, warrior! Are you asking me to leave her out of this? To settle this between you and me?’ Ashvatthama grinned with scornful glee. ‘Do not tell me you are appealing to my honour!’

  Bheem moved, smashing into the mocking enemy a hundred yards away by the time Aviva felt the wind of his rush, heard the sound of the crash, sensed the earth shudder under her feet. Bheem had his hands wrapped around Ashvatthama’s throat in the kantha bandha, the same hold that had destroyed Kritavarma.

  ‘There’s your honour, Ashvatthama,’ Bheem growled, ‘leaking out of your bowels!’

  Ashvatthama felt his mind swim as Bheem squeezed, smelt the foulness dribble from him. His hands scrabbled futilely at Bheem’s piston-like arms; he was losing control of his body as blood drained from his brain; he could no longer easily summon the sutras to change form, break free.

  Aviva looked on, transfixed, as the two giants struggled. They moved at incredible speed, throwing up a whirlwind of sand that formed a tantalizing curtain, yielding sharp, terrifying glimpses of the battle. Surely, Bheem had the upper hand? He seemed to have an iron hold on the enemy’s throat that the latter was unable to break.

  The stylus in the sage’s hand paused. The image in his mind’s eye—was this the final act of the chapter, the battle over already? Bheem’s grip was a noose that was tightening inexorably—Ashvatthama seemed doomed. Ved Vyas sensed the surge of triumph in Bheem’s mind, the frantic torment of Ashvatthama. And he also sensed the easing of tension in the great power th
at had witnessed Ashvatthama’s assault on the island and had struggled to remain neutral, to stay its hand. But, no, the battle was not over. The maharishi picked up the stylus and his hand raced over the parchment.

  A few minutes now and I have him, Bheem thought, as he poured his giant strength into his constricting hands.

  But something was changing; the iron-muscled trunk of the enemy was softening, liquefying. Ashvatthama had lost control over the tree song sutras but they remained rooted in his mind. And now they surfaced, randomly, horrifyingly. Even as Ashvatthama floundered, head and shoulders imprisoned by the relentless chokehold on his neck, his lower body morphed into scalding steam that enveloped Bheem, savaging his eyes, tearing at his skin. Frozen into immobility by Bheem’s command, Aviva watched in horror as a violent geyser of steam erupted upward with irresistible force. It bore Bheem sixty metres into the air and then spun on its axis and speared downward, smashing the warrior on to a rock that had emerged at the rim of the draining lagoon. It was like hitting a blunt axe; Bheem felt his ribs give, their splintered edges grinding against tortured nerves, the invulnerability bestowed on him by Samay gone. The pain was beyond bearing; Bheem closed his mind to it, and focused on the fact that the rock he had hit was not shaped by the sea; it was carved, sculpted into a crown—Lord Hanuman’s crown!

  Just seconds now! Bheem grinned fiercely, adjusted his grip on the fleshy neck, looked directly into the eyes bulging from Ashvatthama’s head—and squeezed.

  Ashvatthama writhed in agony. Desperately, he sought the sutras, but they had a will of their own. Ashvatthama’s body became one with the water around the two warriors; it boiled and tore them away from the rock, carrying them towards jagged reefs. It slammed Bheem into saw-edged outcrops and flung him on to the shore, dragging his broken, blood-streaked form along the coral-strewn beach. And still the warrior refused to let go.

  ‘Flame . . . fire . . .’ Ashvatthama’s fading mind groped for the sutras he needed, failed to find them. ‘Kr—Krita!’ he mumbled, his voice hoarse, breath sinking, mind spiralling into darkness.

  Bheem felt something stir within Ashvatthama. All at once, flame surged out from under the enemy’s skin, consuming his body, flowing over Bheem. It was a searing lash, a molten blade that sliced through Bheem; it was the horror of Samay again. The impervious shield that had been baked into his skin in that blazing cauldron was gone, dissolved by his exposure to Saragha’s toxic blood. Bheem roared in agony and defiance, but it was too much. He could feel his skin melt, his blood evaporate, his eyes burn away—he was blind! He knew he was defeated; he refused to surrender. With all that remained of his immense strength, the warrior flung away the horrific, flaming half-thing that was his enemy. It spiralled away, trailing fire, and splashed into the lagoon, throwing up a fountain of steam. Aviva watched, benumbed, as the smoking husk that had been Bheem crumpled to the ground. She was not even aware that she was screaming.

  Saragha heard Aviva, and knew that the terrible end he had refused to consider had come to pass. The vaanar could not move, could not watch the struggle. The distinctive odour of the warrior—its continued presence had assured him that the warrior was alive, that he fought on. Saragha had focused on it. Moments ago, the gut-wrenching stink of fire had erupted, and every trace of the warrior had vanished. Now Saragha smelt fear and sorrow rising from the girl like smoke. Grief washed over the vaanar, and a great wave of anger. And then he heard the voice.

  ‘My old friend, it is time to come home.’

  This was no hallucination, not maya. Saragha was hurt, bleeding, sane.

  ‘You have carried the burden bravely, Saragha. Lay it down now.’

  The easy, light voice was unmistakable. Saragha felt his grief fall away, anger dissolve.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘The green boughs of Kishkinda . . . they call to us, my friend. Our together-days return.’ The voice was beguiling, its promise irresistible.

  ‘Lord, I . . .’

  A moment passed; Saragha’s mind churned. Had the voice just been a delusion of his collapsed soul?

  ‘You hesitate. The warrior, your friend, you are loath to leave him.’

  Of course he would know! Saragha’s mind kept no secrets from the lord.

  ‘Do you remember the Pool of Possibilities, Saragha?’ The voice was solemn, persuasive. ‘The future that I saw through your eyes? The maanav race ends now. Your friend is doomed.’

  It wasn’t true! Saragha remembered the terrors he had glimpsed in those mystic waters, the visions that had driven him mad. They had flickered from horror to hope, from life to death—and the lord himself had been uncertain.

  ‘You are right; I do not know.’ For the first time, the voice sounded troubled. ‘What I do know is this: you may save your friend if you intervene, but beyond all doubt you will be lost, your soul eradicated as if it never existed and even I will not be able to save you. This is not your fight, not our fight!’

  Saragha’s mind was silent, rebellious.

  ‘You are very dear to me, Saragha.’ The voice was calm again, hypnotic, and Saragha felt himself drawn in as he always had. ‘I do not command you, I merely suggest. The choice is yours.’

  Bheem’s eyes flickered open. He could see! He was alive! It was impossible, but it had happened . . . was happening even now! He could see his charred bones whiten again, feel flesh form over them. He sensed the pulse of veins and the surge of blood, saw black-red liquid drip from his knitting wounds to the ground, heard the acidic hiss of contact and smelt the earthy smoke that curled upward—and understood. He was infected, host to Saragha’s toxic blood. And it had not killed him. As with the vaanar, he had become immune, his body staving off death, healing itself. He did not know what was behind this; at this moment, he did not care.

  Ashvatthama . . . where is he?

  Bheem’s frantic mind forged a frail link with his ravaged muscles, his eyes turned and he saw what he’d feared most. The lagoon no longer boiled; the steam that had shrouded it was dissipating, teasingly unveiling its contents. A full-fleshed, resplendent form emerged, striding forward into the shallows: Ashvatthama, eyeing his fallen adversary contemptuously.

  ‘You still live, warrior? You are full of surprises!’ Ashvatthama chuckled. ‘Of course, I have a few surprises myself. You did not expect the flame? That was Krita. He lives—within me.’ He ambled forward from the waterline, enjoying the feel of sand on his feet. ‘What you need is loyalty, warrior, a friend. Unlucky for you that you Pandavs are so hated.’

  He strolled leisurely towards the defenceless warrior. Aviva watched him approach, groped for a rock, hefted it. A useless gesture, she knew.

  ‘The girl.’ Ashvatthama scarcely glanced at Aviva, still addressing Bheem as he walked. ‘I thought you were seeking the maanavs to track me down. I was wrong, obviously. The maanavs have some hold on you, an attachment you feel for this girl, for whom you risk your life.’ He reached Bheem and squatted next to his maimed body. ‘I did not wait for you after Kurukshetra . . . you did not see me butcher your sons. A mistake.’ He seized a handful of Bheem’s scorched hair. ‘Can you lift your head? Should I help?’ Viciously, he twisted the warrior’s head around and looked into his disfigured eyes. ‘You will watch me slay this girl and bring the maanav race to an end. You are defeated. Utterly! And my vow to my guru is fulfilled. Nothing can stop me! No one!’

  Ahankaar. Arrogance. The deadliest of the seven sins. Ved Vyas’s writing hand paused. Every act, every thought had consequences. What would be the repercussions of Ashvatthama’s egotistic challenge? The sage detected a stir in the ether, but not the reaction he had expected. Abruptly, a voice spoke to him, a voice normally light, playful, but now heavy with sorrow.

  ‘It is no longer in my hands, maharishi. What follows now cannot be deflected.’

  He is too confident, Bheem thought. And I am not dead yet. He could feel his strength trickle back as he healed. But . . . too slow? Too late?

  Beyond Ashvatthama, the w
arrior could see the beach and the falling lagoon. There it was, emerging from the receding waters, the crevice in the rock that led to Sesha Nag’s cave, next to the imposing statue of Hanuman. Escape—tantalizingly close yet frustratingly out of reach. It had changed, though; there was something out of place . . . A sunbeam glanced off the glistening rock, catching Bheem’s eye, and he saw it: the mace! Hanuman’s mace! Restored, positioned perfectly, supported by a stone shoulder, held by stone paws. But this was no replica carved in stone. The weapon was crude wood, a tree branch hacked into a rough hammer shape. It seemed to flicker, though, dancing in the sunlight, the illusion of movement attesting to its power. Bheem closed his eyes and concentrated on the weapon, summoning it, willing it to respond to his call. His eyes opened; the weapon had not budged. This was not his mace, it did not obey him. And then a movement at the edge of his vision caught Bheem’s attention. Saragha! Grimacing, still bleeding, he was heading for the statue, silently edging down a coral outcrop with the innate agility of his race.

  Ashvatthama rose, wrenching Bheem’s head around.

  ‘This is a sight not to be missed, warrior,’ he said. ‘A memory to take along when you travel to the next world.’

  He let Bheem’s head fall and turned towards the girl. Bheem struggled to turn his head but failed. He could not see Saragha, had no way of knowing what the vaanar would do. Helplessly, he watched Ashvatthama start on the hundred yards that lay between him and Aviva-Fein.

  A rancid stench drifted towards her like a cloud. Aviva knew attempting to flee was futile. Grimly, she wiped away all thought, tightened her grip on the rock and assumed an aggressive-defensive posture, her memory instantly retrieving her military training. Ashvatthama moved towards her unhurriedly, smiling, savouring the moment.

  Bheem’s neck muscles flexed abruptly. He tore his head around, away from the inevitability of Aviva-Fein’s killing, eyes homing in on Saragha. Clearly, the vaanar’s objective was the same as the warrior’s: the mace. Saragha sprang on to a coral protrusion next to the statue, tarried for a moment, awestricken, genuflected and then reached for the weapon. Hairy paws wrapped around the haft—Bheem saw Saragha rear back as if speared by a bolt of lightning. Unimaginable power coursed through the vaanar, the force of hurtling winds and driving storms. Saragha shuddered in the blast of energy; he felt his savaged bones come together and his torn hide heal—and knew that madness was just moments away. He could do nothing with the mace. Turning, he saw the warrior on the ground, at least twenty tail-lengths away—a thirtieth of a kos. Saragha had never attempted such a leap. Twenty tail-lengths . . .