‘Why are you telling me that, muhira?’ Dharma snapped, holding a cloth up to the cut on his forehead. ‘You’re the commander of our armies; think of something! Or would you rather admit your defeat?’
‘No, Your Highness,’ Dhrstyadymn hissed through clenched teeth. He stared at Dharma’s back as the older man went off to nurse the rest of his wounds. ‘Right,’ he said once Dharma was out of earshot and threw up his hands in disbelief.
‘You know that my men will fight to the death,’ Shikandin pointed out. ‘I think we should be able to hold Vasusena off but we need to have a second line of defence, just in case. You don’t want the enemy overrunning us all the way to the camp now…’
‘I’ll hold the line myself,’ Dhrstyadymn promised.
With a nod, Shikandin was off.
Hidimbya stood around, uncertain about what he ought to do. He was now alone in the Command Tent, and had been given neither orders nor clue as to what was expected of him. And then, it dawned on him how kind the Fates had been to give him this chance of a lifetime. Smiling to himself, he set off to assemble his men.
‘Right,’ Hidimbya addressed his fellow miners. ‘It isn’t going well. We need to do something, boys. We’ve come into this far too late, but if we go out with glory, they won’t forget us soon, will they?’
‘Easy for you to say, Chief!’ one of the men retorted. ‘You’ll get the pick of Indra’s nymphs in heaven, wont you, now that you’re a Kuru prince.’
Hidimbya rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. ‘Mih! Have you ever seen a nymph? Give me a full-blooded Rikshasa any day, my friend. The last thing I want is for Indra to complain I broke his fragile things in two…’
A round of raucous, whole-hearted laughter rang through the crowd.
‘Tell you what,’ Hidimbya continued, ‘You keep the nymphs, I’ll take your pretty sister instead!’
‘You’d better, Chief,’ the soldier replied. ‘You’re married to her!’
More guffaws rang out loud, this time ebbing slowly, as each man thought of his family, of those he loved the most.
When Hidimbya spoke again, his voice was solemn. ‘There are about a thousand of us alive, but we can each take down eight hundred to a thousand men. That’s more than two whole enemy divisions.’
‘But that would work only if…’
‘If it’s a powerful explosion, in a concentrated area…Look, we can die one by one; or we can die together and leave a chance at victory behind us. What say you?’
As one, the men stood up, and raised their voices in a blood-curdling war call.
‘What was that?’ Govinda muttered.
Partha said, glancing up, ‘It’s almost dawn. The first streaks of red are in the sky.’
Govinda wordlessly pointed to the battlefield ahead, where more of Hidimbya’s nitre-flowers were blooming.
‘They look different,’ Partha said. Soon, both men understood why.
In what had to be a prearranged, well-timed plan, over a hundred blasts rocked the air. Some were so strong that bodies were flung from the ground as the earth shook with the force, their lifeless blood boiling within to make the cadavers burst in mid-air, drenching all that was around in a shower of pulpy flesh and blistering blood. Fearing for their lives, enemy and ally alike tried to retreat and take shelter, but to no avail: The explosions were not unplanned, merely unpredictable, and no one close enough to feel the blast of heat could ever outrun it. It was, however, a testament to the size of Syoddhan’s forces that many remained alive as the blasts ebbed and an eerie stillness came over the battlefield. Heaving sighs of relief, the enemy survivors began to retreat, in an orderly manner. Suddenly, as the bulk of the soldiers drew closer to their camp, huge rings of fire blossomed up on all sides, cutting off their retreat and trapping men by the hundreds. Partha retched as the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils.
Another round of blasts rocked the middle of the battlefield. Govinda was filled with foreboding. He immediately jerked the reins, getting his horses to rush right towards the centre of the carnage. By the time they reached the worst hit part of the battlefield, the attack was over. Their own commanders, each as surprised as the other, now joined them.
‘It’s mainly Syoddhan’s men who are dead. Nearly two divisions I think, maybe more,’ Dhrstyadymn quickly assessed.
‘Hidimbya!’ Govinda suddenly called out. He let go of the reins and jumped down from his rig. ‘Hidimbya! Hidimbya!’
‘Over here! Govinda, over here!’ Yuyudhana waved to them.
Govinda ran over to Yuyudhana. Together, the two men moved aside some debris to reveal Hidimbya’s tall frame. The debris had protected him from being charred painfully to death, but his end was clearly near. The blast had driven a sharp wedge through his chest. He bore the tell-tale marks of the enemy’s arrows and knives, the cuts now sealed shut from the heat of the flames around him.
‘Good thing…no hair,’ he gasped, as they pulled him out of the wreckage and away from fresh flames that had ignited nearby.
‘You planned this! You and your men, you planned this!’ Yuyudhana was incredulous.
The others clustered around. A distraught Bhim alternated between calling out to everyone to carry his son back to camp and barking harsh orders to fetch Dhaumya at once.
‘Father…’ Hidimbya called out.
Bhim fell to his knees and took his son’s hand in his. Gone was every bit of the bravado and strength he had shown moments ago. Now, Bhim was just a father.
‘Don’t cry for me, Father,’ Hidimbya wheezed. ‘I shall soon see my brother, Abhimanyu. We have many years to catch up on.’
‘He waits for you with a hero’s welcome, Hidimbya,’ Govinda affirmed.
‘He was a good man. It’s an honour to die to avenge him. It’s an honour to die for your victory, Govinda… Now you have a chance! Now, there is hope to win this… Fight well.’ Hidimbya reached out to squeeze Govinda’s hand with all the strength he had left in him. And then the Rikshasa’s arm was limp.
You’re a better man than I, Hidimbya, Govinda thought to himself as he watched Hidimbya’s life ebb out of him. But who will die to avenge you? Out loud he said nothing but closed the dead warrior’s eyes.
‘No!’ Bhim hissed. He let go of Hidimbya’s hand and sank his fingers into the red soil of Kuru’s Fields, his fingers digging into the blood-soaked mud as though he would tear the earth asunder, rip apart the fabric of Time and turn the tide of events to bring his son back. He sprang to his feet, head thrown back, red hands clenched and let out a roar of agony that seem to come from the very bowels of the earth to take audible form in his being. He continued to rant and howl, sometimes swearing vengeance, at other times heaping curses and, most of all, giving wordless voice to the unbearable pain inside him.
Govinda felt an overwhelming need for solitude. Standing up, he headed back towards their rig, oblivious to the fact that Partha was right next to him, calling out his name. In a daze, he climbed onto the vehicle and picked up the reins, but instead of readying his horses he simply stood there, eyes unseeing as he looked at the lightening horizon. Slowly, Govinda became aware of Partha’s voice, of words filling the desolation across the battlefield.
‘See what your so-called compassion has done!’ Partha was shouting. ‘See what you’ve done to us, Govinda. Two sons lost in the blink of an eye, in a single night. The future of the Kurus gone, forever. My son! Bhim’s son! Dead. For what?’
For what? Govinda stirred, taking in his surroundings. Over two divisions of Syoddhan’s men lay dead. Fighting had stopped. The enemy commanders had retreated. Vasusena was nowhere to be seen.
Govinda laughed.
Throwing down the reins, he laughed out loud and jumped up, shouting with joy, ‘Yes! Yes! We can win this. We can win this now!’ Partha, Dharma, even Yuyudhana stared horrified as Govinda whirled over the field, basking in the rays of the setting moon. ‘Yes! Hah, yes! Hara be praised!’ He appeared to hum a tune, some song as he danc
ed around the corpses that littered the field.
‘He’s gone mad!’ Dhrstyadymn exclaimed.
Shikandin’s cool grey-green eyes gleamed as he said, ‘He is mad, brother. Mad enough to love life to death!’
Finally, panting and laughing intermittently, Govinda clambered back onto the rig and took up the reins once again.
‘Govinda…’ Partha began.
‘Ah, Partha! I haven’t been this happy since we began this war. I’ll sleep well tonight or for what’s left of it…’ Without further explanation he drove away, leaving the others to see to Hidimbya’s cremation.
Back at the camp, contrary to his assertions, Govinda did not sleep. He stood staring into the distance, at Hidimbya’s blazing pyre. Next to it, a few last embers glowed from within the pile of ash that had once been a man called Abhimanyu.
26
THE SUN ROSE OVER A FIELD THAT HELD MORE DEATH AND DEBRIS than it did life. Where it had once seemed that Kuru’s Fields was too large a space for living men, it now felt too small to hold the endless blanket of corpses that was spread around as far as the eye could see. Combat had stopped just a while ago and would recommence soon. Men and medics had come onto the battlefield to clear it of the fallen – an impossible task, for the dead were too many and the living too few. Nevertheless, the weary medics from both camps went about their tasks as best they could, tending first to those who might live and then to those bound to die, so as to ease their suffering. For those who were already gone, only scavengers had time. The carrion birds had got bolder, no longer deterred by the hyenas and jackals that had emerged from the woods to partake of the waiting feast. There was plenty on offer, and none who could still bear to eat needed leave hungry.
Back at the camps, tallies were being kept of the dead and the missing. A number of Dharma’s lieutenants and commanders – Dhrupad among them – were as yet unaccounted for. Chief Virat had been found dead, his tortured end evidenced by the astra-weapon that was still wedged in his flesh when Bhim found him. His son, Sankha, Bhim had found alive, but barely so, and the prince had died on the way back to camp.
Shikandin and Govinda stood on the edge of the battlefield leaning against an overturned supply-cart. Shikandin was wiping his face and hands with a wet cloth. He had just been pulled off the search for his father; he was tired and his injuries from Bhisma’s weapon burned and stung as they healed. He insisted, to whoever enquired, that he was all right but for a limp in his leg that would heal soon – an optimistic view that Dhaumya, in his opinion as a medic, did not share.
‘Maybe,’ Govinda said, ‘it’s time to face reality… We’ve been fighting fourteen days and a night. From seven divisions, we are down to less than two. Most of the elephants and cavalry horses are gone and we have less than fifty chariot-rigs remaining. For all the planning and strategizing, it has come down to hand-to-hand combat, suicide ploys and bloody, heartless masssacre. We’d be dead right now if it hadn’t been for Hidimbya. How long do you think we can go on? How long do you think we can hold out against Dron and Vasusena?’
‘You’d think we’d have called it off already…’ Shikandin grunted.
‘Hah!’
‘I’m telling you, Govinda. Will you call it off?’
Govinda raised a sardonic eyebrow. Few other than Shikandin would have been so incisive with him and got away it. But he ignored the comment, and went on. ‘Dron is giving us a hard time. Bhisma was a benevolent old man compared to this terror, not to mention his astra-weapons were like toys compared to what the Acharya posseses! We can’t let him go on this way…’ He looked up as Dhrstyadymn came running towards where they stood.
‘We found him…’ Dhrstyadymn shouted, as soon as they were within earshot. ‘Father… Dhaumya says it may be too late already…’
The three men ran to the medic’s tent. Panchali was already there.
‘Forgive me, Shikandin,’ Dhaumya said, as Shikandin made to enter. ‘He doesn’t want to see you.’
Shikandin was not at all disappointed. ‘Go on,’ he told Dhrstyadymn. ‘Go. You need to see him. Our laws say he must declare you King. Go.’
‘But…?’
‘Go.’
Shikandin moved away, Govinda at his side. Yudhamanyu, Kshatradharman and Uttamaujas came running up, but Shikandin stopped them from going into the tent.
‘But…but what about Grandfather?’ Yudhamanyu asked.
‘He is your grandfather, yes, Yudhamanyu. But I am not his son, and your brothers are not his grandchildren.’
‘But…’ Uttamaujas protested.
‘Let it be,’ Yudhamanyu said, to everyone’s surprise. ‘If you aren’t a prince of Panchala, then there is no need for me to be one. We are our father’s children; it is more than enough.’
Shikandin felt a lump in his throat. He glanced at Govinda and saw his friend visibly moved by Yudhamanyu’s declaration. ‘I…’ Shikandin began, but before he could say more, Panchali, Dhrstyadymn and Dhaumya came out of the tent, forlorn. Shikandin stepped forward, pulling Uttamaujas along by the arm. With genuine affection in his eyes, he knelt on one knee before his brother and bowed his head. Yudhamanyu and Kshatradharman quickly followed. It took a short while for it to sink in, but soon Panchali and everyone else around them were bowing in deference to the new King of Panchala.
Dhrstyadymn, however, looked at no one but Shikandin and saw nothing but genuine pride in his brother’s eyes. Someday, he promised himself, I’ll do right by my brother and his sons. But, for now… His voice heavy and commanding, he said, ‘Dron. I want Dron’s head. Help me get him, brother.’
Shikandin stood up. ‘As you command, my king.’
Govinda added, ‘We’ll get Dron. We have to, if any of us wants to stay alive.’
Dhrstyadymn turned to Govinda. ‘The question is how…’ His eyes were red, and his voice shook as he said, ‘For two weeks I’ve given everything I’ve got to get my hands on the Acharya but it has been impossible. And now? He is too well guarded, even better than Syoddhan had guarded Bhisma. Whatever forces they have left, they will now surely use to defend him because they know we will come after Dron, and…’
‘Are these really tears of mourning for the man you called “Father”, Dhrstyadymn?’ Govinda gently interrupted. ‘Or are they tears of fear for the man you’ve loved as a son would his father? No, don’t bother to answer. But now that you know this fear, you know what it is you need to defeat Dron.’
‘I…I don’t understand, Govinda.’
Shikandin added, ‘For what it’s worth, neither do I.’
Govinda smiled. ‘If and when the King of Panchala stops acting like a ridiculously noble warrior and begins to think as a son, he will understand…’
Dhrstyadymn fell silent, and turned to Panchali. His sister, apparently, found no mystery in Govinda’s words. Her eyes already held the answer. He understood.
‘Well, Commander?’ Govinda prompted.
With a deep breath, Dhrstyadymn began issuing instructions.
27
WARS, THEY SAID OF OLD, WERE HONOURABLE WHEN FOUGHT righteously, and demonical when fought for the thrill of combat. Asvattama Bharadvaja thought of his actions as being in the former category, but he could not deny that the brutality involved in war and the aggression it awakened in him gave him great pleasure. The battlefield was his element, his home. Here, he could do no wrong. Here, he was not the disappointing son, but the consummate, undefeated warrior who made his teacher, his father, proud.
Asvattama laughed at the notion. It made the soldiers he faced all the more afraid for it. Six men, all hardy warriors, surrounded him and more men on horses and chariots rallied behind them. Behind those men, he knew, Shikandin, Yuyudhana and a few others held the line, preventing any of Syoddhan’s men from coming to his aid. They did not press in on him, preferring to leave that task to their subordinates. It was, Asvattama noted, a mistake. Not one man who met his eye doubted that he, a lone, blood-soaked man on foot, holding nothing but a s
word in each arm, was the more lethal of the two factions.
With a yell, the six soldiers ringing him closed in, at once. It took just a few instants for Asvattama to move, hacking and stabbing, till they all lay contorted and torn on the dirt of the battlefield. Asvattama was not yet done. With a wild yell, he threw himself at the next enemy line, swinging up on to a horse to unseat the mounted solider with a kick, even as he drove his sword through the neighbouring man. Then he jumped off the horse, bodily bringing down the three soldiers who had rushed at him on foot.
An amorphous cry to ‘kill the demon’ went up within the enemy ranks and they came at him from all directions. It was what he was waiting for. He stood his ground, keenly aware of the enemy’s blood as it splashed on his face, soaked his clothes, seeped onto his tongue through his clenched teeth. The salty, metallic taste was an elixir and he could feel himself wanting more, like some vengeful god demanding human sacrifice to sate his hunger. He stopped only when there were no more to be killed and stood reeling in ecstasy, panting hard.
‘Asvattama!’ the voice was dim at first, and then sounded louder, more urgent. ‘Asvattama! Asvattama!’
He turned to see Kripa standing at the periphery of the carnage, an expression of disgusted awe on his face. Asvattama walked over to him, stabbing a thrashing soldier on the way, without breaking his stride. ‘What is it, Uncle?’
It took a moment for Kripa to gather his thoughts, but even that did not help his coherence. ‘I…we…we’ve been looking for you everywhere… Dhrstyadymn…’
Asvattama surveyed his surroundings. Shikandin and the others were nowhere to be seen. Instead of attacking him, they had all withdrawn. Clearly their task had been to detain, not destroy. Suspicion grew in Asvattama, but it was tempered at once by the truth of what he knew.
He said, amused. ‘They tried to lure my father into a trap, did they? I wish I could have seen that ploy play out. What did Father do? Laugh in their face when they told him I was under attack?’
The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 03: Kurukshetra Page 36