He reached out into the blurred haze around him. His fingers touched melted flesh and bare bone, and the acrid smell of burnt skin flooded his nostrils. Amba, he knew, was calling to him; she held out her blazing arms to embrace him, to burn him on her stone pyre. He laughed, the sound hollow in his ears, and surrendered to her call. Willingly, Shikandin drew the fiery image in his mind closer, till he was one with the flames. Her bead necklace felt cool against his skin.
‘Shikandin!’ Govinda’s voice was calling him from somewhere in the distance. ‘Come on! We didn’t make it through everything for us to die this way, out here. Shikandin! Get up! Get us out of this mess. You’re the responsible one, remember?’
Shikandin wanted to laugh at that statement, years of memorable companionship turning into the happiness of the present, but it came out as a guttural, rasping noise. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes.
‘Get up!’ Govinda urged him, loud and clear, shaking his shoulder as though he were asleep.
At length, Shikandin found the strength to speak. ‘Help me up,’ he said, blood seeping out from between clenched teeth. ‘If you don’t mind, Govinda – the horses?’
Partha helped Shikandin to his feet, as Govinda turned the horses around to make another run at Bhisma.
Shouts went up from the battlefield, the uncertainty of what was to happen holding each sound suspended in mid-air. Dron and Kripa were already at Bhisma’s side and were ready to engage the opponents, but the Grandsire waved them aside. Partha looked from Shikandin to the Grandsire and back to Shikandin. The wounded warrior could barely stand. His breath came in a wheeze, suggesting a broken rib, possibly several.
‘What…’ Partha began, but then stopped. With a grim draw of breath, he took up his weapons and aimed at the Grandsire in a reluctant attempt at defence. After what felt like a long time, though it was not, Shikandin too raised his bow and reached out for an arrow. His actions were smooth, as though he felt no pain. Partha was briefly relieved, more at not having to attack Bhisma than at Shikandin’s ostensible recovery, but then realized their position was no different for it.
‘It won’t work, Shikandin,’ he said. ‘Those things the Grandsire has are of Wright-make. The others are right; we can’t counter astra weapons without astra weapons of our own. This is a lost cause…’
But Shikandin’s mind was elsewhere. His long, matted hair streamed loose in the wind and a placid smile played on his face. Bhisma hesitated, but the sentiment passed and he let loose his astra-arrow. Once again, the deadly weapon made its way towards Shikandin and Partha.
Govinda held their course steady, showing no signs of dodging or swerving.
‘You’re mad, both of you!’ Partha shouted.
Govinda chuckled. ‘There are some things in the world more powerful than Wright-work, Partha. Like madness.’
‘Or,’ Shikandin finished, ‘justice.’
In the blink of an eye, Shikandin tore the chain of beads off his neck, twisted it around his arrow and let the shaft loose. Before anyone could breathe, another arrow, black-tipped and adorned with feathers, followed. He watched as his makeshift missile made its way through the rain of arrows on the battlefield, and shattered against Bhisma’s astra and dropped to the ground in pieces, its work done.
The Firewright chain, however, had wrapped itself around Bhisma’s twisting weapon, the beads as hardy as the astra. Blades and wheels strained with the effort to spin but the beads held it tight. With a final groan, the body of the astra snapped and the heavy missile fell, bounding over the battlefield in a last bid for lives before finally coming to a stop.
Govinda tugged at the reins, slowing his horses down as a lull fell over the battlefield. All eyes were on Bhisma, as the patriarch stared, uncomprehending, at the destroyed astra. And then Bhisma toppled over from his chariot-rig to the ground.
Shikandin’s second arrow, made from the black-metal of kali, its tail feathers gifted by the birds of the Eastern Forest, had pierced the Grandsire right through his heart.
11
HOSTILITIES CEASED FOR THE DAY AND A RESTLESS PEACE TOOK over the field. A crowd, quiet for its size, had gathered at a corner near the riverside. Partha sat on the banks, weeping loudly despite Bhim’s and Nakul’s attempts to calm him down. In the middle of that sombre group, Bhisma Devavrata, patriarch of the Kurus and veteran of innumerable battles, lay dying. Syoddhan and Dharma both stood respectfully by the Grandsire’s side, listening attentively to all that the old man had to say.
At length, Bhisma finished his instructions and mournfully noted, ‘Who can resist the tides of destiny? Yet, it is in the name of submission to destiny, to Divine Order, that we fight each other. Is there any chance of peace, my sons…?’
Dharma and Syoddhan shared a long glance and then shook their heads to say there was none
‘Then,’ Bhisma said, ‘you’d better get back to your respective camps. You have much to do. I cannot wish one of you victory over the other, but hope that together you’ll do this family proud. Fight fair and fight well. My blessings are always with those who uphold morality and justice.’
Syoddhan was quiet, but his eyes held a clear, dark pain. Dharma, on the other hand, let his tears fall openly. The two men drew back so that the others gathered there could honour the fallen Elder. Every noble who was at Kuru’s fields was now present at Bhisma’s deathbed. All save Vasusena.
If the dying patriarch noticed the King of Anga’s absence, he did not comment on it, focusing instead on whispering apt messages and words of blessing to those who now paid him their respects. For Panchali he had only an elaborate sigh as she bowed at his feet. She ignored the lack of words and stepped back into the crowd, showing only the humility and composed grief that were expected of her. Bhisma watched her go, his mind wandering to another bold woman he had known once. With some effort, he caught himself and forced all anger out of his mind. That was in the past. He was now ready to die. But he would go with honour. He crooked a finger, calling Dharma to his side. ‘I want to see those three…’
‘Yes, Grandfather.’
The crowd parted and the awed silence that it held disguised many emotions, from rage to admiration, misery to pride. As one, all eyes followed the three men who walked up to where the Grandsire lay. Politely, they waited, as the dying man ran his eyes over them – Govinda, who returned the gaze with boldness; Partha, still tearful and penitent, and a heavily-bandaged, limping Shikandin, whose humble arrow was still wedged deep within Bhisma’s chest. With each breath the fallen patriarch took, the arrow threatened to rent his heart and end his life.
Bhisma managed a weak sneer and said, ‘Shikandin, is it not?’ He continued without waiting for an answer, ‘Don’t fret, my boy. I hold nothing against you. You see, this was destined. Just as it was destined that Amba – my nemesis of old – would face me again, in your form. She told me that in one lifetime or the next… Ah, how then could I truly fight you…deep inside your man’s body you hide a woman’s soul. This isn’t your arrow that kills me, Shikandin. This is simply my destiny, the fulfilment of an old promise. And so I hold nothing against you or your kin.’
The statement drew a palpable sigh of relief from Dhrupad, who went down on one knee next to Bhisma and took the patriarch’s bloody hand into his own, glaring at Shikandin with unfettered hatred.
Shikandin made to speak, but before he could do so Bhisma addressed Partha. ‘You are a great archer, my son. It’s an honour to have gone down in fair combat against you…’
Partha was shocked. ‘Grandfather, I…’
But Bhisma would have none of it. He had one last barb left to deliver. ‘Shikandin! Here.’ He feebly held up a bloody string of beads. ‘Come closer; take back what is yours. My blessings go with you…’
Shikandin felt his heart pound as he realized what the Grandsire meant. Then, holding his breath, he hobbled forward. He bowed as best as he could with his injuries, took the proffered beads and stared, forlorn, at them. Then, placing them b
ack around his neck, he walked away without another word.
‘Svasti! Enough now, all of you,’ Bhisma said. ‘Get back to your work, and leave an old man to say his final prayers. My blessings, such as I may have left to give, go with you all.’
The crowd dispersed. Govinda was one of the last to leave. As he walked away, he noticed Vasusena arriving, Sanjaya alongside, to pay his respects to Bhisma. The two men studied each other before Sanjaya ushered Vasusena along. Govinda moved away, thinking. He had no doubt that Bhisma’s fall would leave Syoddhan with no choice but to ask Vasusena to join the battle. Indeed, he was quite sure that Bhisma himself would make the request before his conversation with Vasusena was done. What that also meant, was that Dharma’s forces had a new and mighty enemy to face in the days to come.
He was about to walk on, when he heard a soft voice behind him: ‘Poor Shikandin…’
Govinda spun around, his eyes blazing.
Sanjaya continued, unconcerned. ‘After all that he has done for you, his reputation has come to nothing. His valour has come to nothing. How many more will you destroy this way, Govinda, before you yield? You turned traitor, destroyed us all – or so you thought. But see, we’re back and we’re more powerful than ever. Or will you now pretend you don’t know who Vasusena truly is? Today, I have the authority of the Firstborn and the might of the Firewrights at my feet! Suka and Devala both dance to my command, and past and future will be as I decide to tell it. Why do you still resist? Let me make you an offer. Accept, and this whole tragedy can end now!’
Govinda said, ‘I have no doubt that I won’t resist, but you stir my curiosity. And since I think we are done with battle for the day, I might as well let you entertain me. Speaking of battle, I don’t remember seeing you on the field. Still playing messenger boy?’
Sanjaya did not rise to the bait. He said, ‘You know what happens now…now that the old man has fallen.’
‘Suppose you tell me.’
‘Bhisma Devavrata was the cornerstone of Dwaipayana’s elaborate system of control over Firewright technology, his way of harnessing its power by placing it in the hands of an elite few. Now, with Bhisma gone, the harness is broken. Anybody and everybody who has a weapon at his disposal will seek to use it or barter it for power. You know as well as I do that each king and vassal lord hoarded what they could of Firewright-made weapons, whether they understood the use or not. Now countless astra-weapons will emerge from the dust of hiding. We stand on the brink of a new system, a new society, where Firewright might – our might – is the core of everything. Needless to say, Dharma Yudhisthir and his kind have no place in the new world. As for you…your time is running out, Govinda. I would not put it past Dharma Yudhisthir to have you beheaded in an act of penitence before he gives in to his despair. Or maybe he will let you live, but what a miserable life that would be, without kith or kin or allegiance.’
‘And,’ Govinda said, ‘in your kindness, you wish to offer me an alternative?’
‘Come over to our side. I know there are secrets, things that Ghora has taught you that you alone know. Do you realize what a powerful man you would be in the world I seek to forge? All that you could want: land, wealth, respect…why, even the woman you want – and don’t bother denying it – can be yours. The winners make the rules, Govinda; they write history. Be a winner. Be one of us.’
With a soft smile, Govinda replied, ‘No.’
‘Why not? Do you still think Suka and Dwaipayana can turn the tide in any way? All they care about is their precious Books of Knowledge, and they will gladly do what it takes to see that endeavour through. But the price they pay for that will be high; they will have to legitimize us, the Firewrights, as the ultimate authority. This feud will end, Govinda. How can you not want that?’
‘Do you really care for my explanations, Sanjaya? You just want what you want of me. My answer still remains no.’
Sanjaya studied Govinda. ‘The Secret Keeper. You place your faith in the one who refuses to stand by you. You’re a fool, Govinda. I’m telling you again, join me. Together we can destroy the Secret Keeper before he destroys you. Suka will have no choice but to help us…’
‘Shut up, Sanjaya.’
‘I repeat: Govinda, you’re a fool.’
‘A stupid fool, I’m happy to add.’
‘And how many more will pay for your stupidity?’
Govinda’s eyes were undecipherable. ‘Millions, Sanjaya. The very Universe will pay. Now, I think you’d better go and offer your respects to the Grandsire before you end up preceding him in the afterlife.’
12
A FRENZIED, FEVERISH EXCITEMENT RAN THROUGH DHARMA’S camp as the armies readied for the next morning’s battle. With Bhisma gone, there was, many believed, a chance at victory. Now and then, some group of soldiers or the other would take up a victory chant in Shikandin’s name and drink to him around the campfire.
Dharma had first insisted that discipline be kept, and liquor be forbidden that night, but Dhrstyadymn had assured him that the gain in morale was worth the chance of a solider or two getting hopelessly drunk. Eleven days had passed since the war began, and they were down to a little less than a quarter of their strength. Morale was now paramount. And the man who had revived that hope, who could drive it higher, was missing.
‘I can’t find him anywhere,’ Dhrstyadymn reported, walking into the command tent.
‘Me neither,’ Yudhamanyu replied. ‘He’s not with Kshatradharman and Uttamaujas.’ Turning back to Panchali, he added, ‘This is so unlike Father.’ Panchali smiled. As with Shikandin, she too had not yet had her fill of listening to the boy address his father with such familiarity and respect.
Dharma, however, had no time to be pleased or amused. ‘What’s wrong with him? Where could he have gone? The men are clamouring for a glimpse of him, and he’s gone missing!’
Panchali asked Dhrstyadymn, ‘Have you tried Father’s tent?’
‘The King’s tent? But why would Shikandin go there…?’
Panchali stood up. ‘I’ll find him.’
Panchali walked over to Dhrupad’s cluster of tents, slowing down as she heard voices from inside. Rather than intrude on the conversation, she decided to wait for an opportune moment. Hardly had she perched herself on a wooden supply trunk a few feet away when Shikandin stormed out Dhrupad’s tent, angrier than she had ever seen him. Before she could say anything, her brother’s long strides had taken him out of the camp and towards the fringes of the surrounding forests. Panchali ran behind him.
‘Shikandin!’ she called out, as she followed him to a small grassy plain. ‘Shikandin, wait!’
He finally turned around. ‘What’re you doing here, Panchali?’ he snapped. ‘Go back. Leave me alone!’
Panchali did not reply but continued to make her way towards her brother till she stood in front of him, panting for breath. ‘You…you walk fast, you know,’ she gasped. ‘Really fast! Hai! I wonder how any woman would agree to go for a stroll with you, Agraja! No wonder your romances die out before they begin – it must be far too tiring for the poor things…’
Shikandin managed a chuckle. Panchali saw how deeply hurt her brother was that he did not laugh as he was wont to. ‘Talk to me, Shikandin. Please?’ she urged him.
‘What’s there to talk about, Panchali?’
‘I’m neither blind, nor deaf, Shikandin. Besides, I know – Subadra told me. And, I also heard what the Grandsire said to you, earlier. …’
‘All my life, Panchali,’ Shikandin slowly began, ‘I’ve been used to being the one who’s wrong, the one who’s a disappointment. It’s something I don’t talk about or pay attention to anymore. I just don’t understand why, this once, it bothers me… I’ve always been an outcast, a misfit…’
‘No!’
‘Do you remember your childhood, Panchali?’
She fell silent. In all these years, not once had Shikandin spoken about her past, about the fact that she was not his sister by blood. A pang of gui
lt, of regret, flashed through her as she realized that she had opened that door with her own deed, her own barter with the Secret Keeper. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Then imagine,’ he said, reaching up to touch the beads around his neck. ‘Imagine being a child, being made aware that you are somehow different, even if you don’t understand it. Imagine growing up hating yourself because you are a shame to your family, and then hating yourself more because your family is the biggest cause of your shame.’ Shikandin paused, gritting his teeth to contain a pain he could not name. ‘Then, you’ll know what I feel. Then you’ll…’
As the weariness and despondence of years hit him like a physical blow, he slid down to his knees, slamming his clenched fists into the ground. ‘The old saying goes that the child must pay for the sins of the father,’ Shikandin said. ‘I’d reconciled myself to the fact that Yudhamanyu hated me, as I’ve hated Father – I had no right to expect otherwise. But then, when you and Dhrstyadymn… I’ve wondered for so long now; since the day you were married to Dharma. What if, Panchali? What if my errors, my sins now weigh over you? Where does this end? Perhaps, if I’d been a better son, a better brother, a better man, you would not have suffered the way you have. Can you forgive me…?’
Panchali knelt down and settled her elder brother’s head on to her lap, as though he were a child. Shikandin did not protest. He curled his body tight and let the tears come, the way he had not in all his life. Panchali wrapped her arms protectively around him, wiped away his tears, combed his long hair with her fingers and rocked him till he fell into a deep sleep. She stayed awake, gazing alternately at Shikandin’s worry-worn face and the night sky above them till the morning star rose in the east, warning them of the impending dawn. Then, gently, she shook her brother awake.
Shikandin awoke and sat up, for a while retaining the blissful equanimity he had found in sleep. It was replaced quickly by the throbbing memory of what had happened and what awaited him still.
The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 03: Kurukshetra Page 27