MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#1: The Forest of Stories (Mba)

by Ashok K. Banker

  After a moment in which the other Haihayas gaped at their fallen friend, and other pedestrian and horse-mounted passers-by on the raj marg continued on their way with eyes averted from what they assumed was just another routine instance of kshatriya violence, realization set in of what had just occurred.

  A brahmin had killed a kshatriya.

  A brahmin boy, no less, on foot and armed only with a woodchopper—for Shiva’s parasu appeared deceptively ordinary in appearance at first sight—attacked from behind by a veteran Haihaya warrior, one of King Arjuna Kartavirya’s own.

  It was unheard of. Unthinkable. Impossible.

  Yet it had happened. There lay the fallen kshatriya, severed stump bleeding out the last of his life onto the dust of the road, who only moments earlier had been talking and laughing with the rest of them.

  Without thinking further, the rest of the band of veterans roared with fury and spurred their horses, riding after the brahmin boy, who had already left them several dozen yards behind as he continued his resolute journey up the raj marg. Swords drawn, they rode down at him from behind, hell-bent on avenging their fallen comrade. Others on the raj marg drew their horses aside, leaped off the road, or stopped their chariots or uks wagons to let the Haihayas pass. Nobody paid much attention to the intended victim of their rage. When kshatriyas were on a rampage, it was best to continue about one’s business and ignore them completely—unless of course they expected you to bow or serve them. Only a pair of brahmacharyas, trekking back to the city with herbs collected from the woods, paid heed. As fellow brahmins, they knew they were about to witness a familiar sight: the murder of one of their brethren for no fault other than the mere fact that he was a brahmin. Even though they were both boys with hairless chins, they had seen scores of such assaults and massacres; it was a part of daily life under Haihaya rule. The world belonged to the men who wielded swords, and that meant kshatriyas. The only weapons they possessed were words.

  But not the brahmin boy. He was armed with something more than words. And unlike his brahmin brethren, he was not afraid to use it on kshatriyas if compelled.

  As the band of Haihayas rode down on him, Parashurama raised the hand holding the axe before his face. He did not slow his walk or turn his head. He kept walking towards Mahishmati. The blade of the raised axe was as clear and mirrored as still water. Upon the surface of the blade, he could see a clear reflection of the raj marg behind him—and the Haihaya riders bearing down on him with swords drawn and ugly expressions on their bearded faces. He gripped the axe by the leather thong that hung from the base of its handle with his other hand, then, as the riders came within striking distance, he swung it.

  What followed next was a blur to the watching brahmacharyas across the road.

  While they had witnessed any number of acts of violence in their youthful lives, almost all involving kshatriyas slaughtering brahmins or, less frequently, one another, they had never witnessed anything akin to what they saw on the raj marg that noonday.

  Parashurama’s axe swung around in a looping blur as the first Haihaya bore down on him. The blade of the axe seemed to glide through the torso of the kshatriya, as if it came close to his body but did not actually touch him. This was because it did not strike with any impact, merely spun a full looping turn without any indication of having struck the rider.

  The first rider swung at Parashurama, appeared to miss him by an inch, and rode past.

  Parashurama’s axe continued to twirl around the leather thong, which was spinning on his forefinger held up in the air like a man launching a discus, crooked just slightly at the tip to keep the thong from slipping off. By the time it was on its third looping turn, the next horseman came within striking distance. Parashurama moved his hand at blurring speed, and once again, the axe continued spinning as it cut through the space which the rider occupied, apparently without touching the rider himself.

  The second rider also swung at him, missed, then overshot.

  Parshuarama then stepped sideways, moved the spinning parasu to adjust for the new angle at which the next rider was approaching, and spun it at this third Haihaya as well, with much the same result. Except that this time, there was a brief red glitter, as though red rubies had been tossed in midair and caught the sunlight.

  The axe spun round without interruption, and the rider hacked downwards, missed, and rode past.

  Now, a peculiar thing happened to the first rider.

  He had stopped his horse and had begun to turn its head, to ride back at Parashurama for a second pass. But he barely managed to twist the reins once, then doubled over in apparent agony . . . and fell off his horse to the ground.

  Except that only the top half of the Haihaya fell off. It slid off the man’s torso, as neatly severed as a joint of lamb struck cleanly by a butcher’s blade, and fell with a wet thump to the road. The rest of the man, everything from about midway down his chest downwards, remained seated on the horse, gaping bright red and terrible in the gaudy sunlight.

  A moment later, the same thing happened to the second rider. The angle of the severance was slightly different, the second man having been cut a little lower than the first man, but the effect was much the same.

  The axe had cut them in half.

  The third rider paused, appeared to gag on his own blood, then toppled off his horse—but the cut was not complete in his case, which was why the brahmacharyas had glimpsed the ruby red blood winking in the sunlight, and the top half of his body hung down, still partly attached to his lower body. It was a nauseating sight. The horse was drenched in the blood of the rider and whinnied in alarm and disgust.

  The remaining Haihayas suffered much the same fate.

  For about the space of ten or twelve normal breaths, Parashurama swung his axe round and round on his upraised finger, as each warrior rode down at him, and in that time, as many warriors died.

  Moments later, the raj marg was strewn with the severed bodies of almost a score of Haihaya veterans, butchered like chopped meat.

  Parashurama turned back towards the direction he had been going, and continued on his way.

  He flicked the axe as he went, sending a few drops of blood flying from its blade. But oddly enough, not all the blood was flicked off. The gore upon the edge and sides of the blade seemed to seep into the shining metal face, like water absorbed by parched earth.

  Parashurama flicked a drop or two off, but the rest seeped into and was swallowed by the blade itself. The axe literally drank the blood. Even thirty yards away, the brahmacharyas across the road could hear the blade sing.

  It was a keening shrill metallic sound, like the sound a knife blade makes when set to a rapidly spinning grindstone. It was so high-pitched, it set stray dogs to barking for miles around, and along the length of the raj marg people looked up and frowned, sensing rather than hearing the sound before shaking their heads and continuing on their way.

  Parashurama continued walking towards Mahishmati. Already, the gates of the city were within sight. The encounter with the veterans had taken barely a few moments of his time. Seventeen experienced and battle-tested warriors lay dead in the dust behind him. There was not a scratch upon him.

  ||Six||

  Parashurama approached the gates of Mahishmati. The kshatriyas milling about the gate were mostly inebriated louts spoiling for a fight. The gatewatch duty was a lucrative assignment as it came with the power to stop any visitors, seize contraband as well as levy the city toll. Few dared pick a fight with the gatewatch of Mahishmati because they represented the official might of the Haihaya empire. Over time, this had led to the sentries abusing their positions of power, preying on travellers, demanding a higher toll than was official, pocketing a portion for themselves, taking bribes from the richer merchants, smuggling contraband out or in, confiscating items for their own personal use or as gifts, and generally doing as they pleased. They mostly spent their duty hours under the influence of one or other of the many intoxicants that came into their possess
ion, playing bone-dice games to decide who went home with the day’s spoils of confiscation, or, when they needed some diversion, harassing the female or weaker travellers passing through the gates they watched.

  They might have let Parashurama pass by unmolested, taking him to be what he was in fact: a brahmin boy from some remote ashram come to the city on some errand or other. Strictly speaking, brahmins were not expected to pay any tolls or taxes, being as they were, bereft of worldly possessions and wealth. But this was Mahishmati, seat of the Haihayas, and the very existence of a brahmin was an affront to any kshatriya.

  So, just as Parashurama was about to pass resolutely through the vaulting gates of the city, he was challenged by a drunken guard.

  ‘You there. Pay your toll.’

  The sentries at the gate, hearing their colleague call out and seeing the brahmin boy, crossed their spears, barring Parashurama’s way.

  Parashurama slowed, then came to a halt. His dark face glowed with an energy that belied his unattractive features, lending him an extraordinary aura of strength and charisma. His features were not handsome, far from it, and his body was squat and dwarfish in proportion. But the fiery black eyes, high prominent cheekbones, bristling black beard and crow-black brahmin hair matted in a knot atop his head, with the powerful neck and shoulders, all created a sense of great power and menace when seen from close up.

  The gatewatch guard who had called out the challenge felt and saw this menace as Parashurama halted close before him and had a tiny moment of misgiving. It was gone as soon as it had arisen. After all, this was no kshatriya; he was merely a brahmin from the aranya. A naïve young acolyte who was sworn to ahimsa, the philosophy of non-violence and would sooner cause himself to waste away in self-punitive austerities than lift a finger against another living being. There was no menace or danger here!

  ‘Toll,’ said the gatewatch curtly. ‘Pay.’

  Parashurama merely stood his ground and glowered. He was not looking directly at the gatewatch guard or at any of his colleagues. His gaze was set beyond them, upon his destination, the city within. This lent him a peculiar air of distraction, the look of a man not entirely in his senses. And this was true: Parashurama was inhabiting a mental space that was not the rational realm of most mortals. Certainly not the warped morally corrupt world that these predatory sentries inhabited. He was following his own sense of dharma.

  He gave no answer to the guard.

  The gatewatch looked at his colleagues with amusement. ‘A silent one we have here, men.’

  ‘Maybe he’s taken a maun-vrata,’ said one of the others, drinking from a jug of soma they had confiscated from a wine-vendor passing by. ‘A vow of silence.’

  His colleague, seated on the wall above the gate, called down: ‘Brahmin fool won’t have a penny to his name anyway. Beat him and kick him on his way.’

  Another sentry pointed to the shining blade of the axe hanging from Parashurama’s cloth waistbelt. ‘He could pay the toll with that. That looks like it could be worth something.’

  ‘Or useful at least,’ said the first man who had spoken.

  He reached for the axe, intending to examine it more closely. ‘Let’s take a look at this, young’un, shall we?’ he began. ‘I have always wanted—.’

  He never finished—either his words or his action.

  Even before his fingertips touched the hilt of the axe hanging from the brahmin boy’s waist, Parashurama had taken up the axe, and cut off the gatewatch sentry’s arm. It fell with a soft thud to the ground, knocking over the jug of soma. Thick honey wine spilled into the dirt, mingling with the blood from the severed arm.

  The other sentries reacted quicker than their compatriots on the raj marg had earlier. For one thing, being on gatewatch meant they dealt with all manner of ruffians and foreigners. Corrupt they were, but fit and skilled at violence as well, or else they would not survive a day of being on gatewatch. The instant they saw blood spilled, they drew their weapons and attacked without further comment or discussion. Spears and swords in hand, they moved in on Parashurama, intending to kill him without wasting a single breath on asking a question. He had maimed one of their own, that was all that mattered. He had to be brought down at once.

  Parashurama raised his forefinger, twirling his axe on its leather thong. It spun at an amazing speed, the edge of its blade producing the same keening song it had made earlier. The sentries heard it and noted the blurring speed at which the axe spun round the brahmin boy’s finger, but moved in anyway.

  It was not long before they all lay dead, or horribly maimed and dying, at their post.

  Visitors coming and going gawked at them and reacted to the extraordinary sight of so much Haihaya blood spilled at the very gates of the city. They had never before seen such a thing, not in Mahishmati.

  Nor had they ever seen anything like the brahmin boy who stood over the butchered corpses with the axe in his hand. The axe that seemed to have almost no bloodstains on its blade, and which produced a sharp high-pitched sound that physically hurt their ears and set dogs barking across the city.

  Parashurama raised both hands, shaking the axe at the krtavardha banner which bore the sigil of King Arjuna Kartavirya.

  ‘Haihaya! I am come to reclaim my father’s calf. Come out and return our property to me, or I shall enter and kill every last kshatriya within these walls today!’

  As the echoes of his challenge faded away, the citizens who had witnessed the slaughter of the gatewatch turned to one another, unsure whether to laugh or to wonder at his audacity. Surely he was suicidal, insane, deluded. To stand at the gates of Mahishmati and challenge the entire Haihaya dynasty? What hubris! In moments more soldiers would come—scores, hundreds, thousands if need be—and put an end to this ingenuous youth.

  They waited to watch the foolish young brahmin die.

  ||Seven||

  Parashurama did not have long to wait. It so chanced that King Arjuna Kartavirya had not yet reached his capital city. The Haihaya king had set off from Jamadagni’s ashram with his prize, intending to come straight home and experiment further with his new possession. But on the way, a thought had occurred to him. He realized that if Kamadhenu could grant any desire its owner asked, then there was no reason to restrict one’s demands to treasure alone. He had demanded uks carts to carry the treasure he had already conjured up back at Jamadagni’s ashram and now a veritable grama train of uks wagons followed his band of warriors on the raj marg, laden with more wealth than he had brought home from most military raids or campaigns. And that was what made him realize that if he could ask for uks carts to carry his treasure, he could ask for other things as well, things not inherently of value but of great strategic and tactical use to a warlord.

  For instance, at this very moment, he was chasing Bahu, son of Sagara, with a band of about 250 of his finest soldiers. He commanded great armies, massive military forces, but it was not practical to mobilize them all quickly enough to give chase to a small band of rebels. What he needed was a way to track down and find Bahu and his band of marauders quickly and efficiently. He needed a small force of expert trackers who perfectly knew the region of the aranya into which Bahu and his warriors had taken refuge and were capable of flushing them out and slaughtering them on sight.

  And so this was what he asked Kamadhenu for next. Stopping on the road itself, he uttered the mantras of command and compelled the calf to produce his demand. A blink of an eye later, a whole company of lean-faced men, accompanied by dogs as lean-faced and lithe-bodied as their masters, stood before King Arjuna Kartavirya, ready to do his bidding. He set them upon the trail of Bahu and soon enough, the hunt was on.

  Hours later, he had rounded up and slaughtered Bahu’s band of rebels and captured Bahu himself. He decided to take the rebel leader back to Mahishmati to be tortured and publicly executed as an example. There were still some packs of rebels loose across the wilderness, for they had split up and fled to the four quarters. The Haihaya king sent his three s
ons after them, using the trackers and their dogs. He ordered his sons not to return home until they had tracked down and eliminated every last one. Then he turned the head of his own horse and started back for his capital city.

  And thus it was, only a little while after Parashurama stopped at the gates of Mahishmati, King Arjuna Kartavirya came riding up as well, bearing in tow the very thing that he had stolen from Parashurama’s father, the precious calf Kamadhenu.

  King Arjuna Kartavirya was taken aback by the extraordinary sight that met his eyes at the city gates.

  Parashurama stood alone before the gates, with a large and growing crowd of travellers, merchants, citizens and other brahmins standing across the way and watching with great interest. His axe was in his hand, still singing after the slaughter of another round of victims. And the bodies of those he had killed lay strewn all around him.

  Even at a glance, King Arjuna Kartavirya estimated there must be at least two hundred corpses lying around the brahmin boy. It was difficult to tell exactly because the corpses were mostly hacked apart, but there appeared to be body parts corresponding roughly to that number

  He looked around, frowning in the afternoon sunlight, trying to fathom who else had assisted the brahmin boy in this slaughter. Where were his allies? Surely there must be a sizable contingent of kshatriyas fighting alongside him, to have produced such a death toll?

  It took him some time to absorb and accept the fact that it was only one man, a boy at that, and that too a brahmin, who had accomplished all this, entirely on his own. With a single axe.

  Parashurama recognized King Arjuna Kartavirya from his burnished armour and the banner-bearer and umbrella-bearer that flanked him. He raised his axe and hailed him loudly.

  ‘Kshatriya! You have stolen something that is not your property. Return unto me that which you took from my father’s ashram.’