The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 03: Kurukshetra

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Dwaipayana studied Govinda. The warrior was trying hard to do justice to the debate, but weariness was catching up with him. The old scholar said, ‘This war between you and me was no less than the war that raged on in the fields outside. Well fought!’

  ‘Thank you, Acharya.’

  Dwaipayana thought for a while, and then said, ‘Will you do something for me, Govinda; something for an old man who has given his life in service to these lands?’

  ‘I am at your disposal, Acharya.’

  ‘Spare Sanjaya.’ He hesitated and added, ‘In the name of the one who is now Secret Keeper, I ask you this. He would not, I know, deny me this request. I ask you to show me the same favour.’

  Govinda could not hide his astonishment. Nor, he realized, did he want to. He felt lighter all of a sudden, as though he no longer carried the burden of a secret alone. And then, as he saw how heavy the truth weighed on the old Dwaipayana, his release gave way to pity. He understood why the scholar had fought to defend his point of view, tried so hard to explain the reasoning behind his actions. Dwaipayana’s defeat was now complete and, the old man knew it. ‘How…?’ he asked.

  ‘He told me,’ Dwaipayana said. ‘He told me about it all. What better place to hide the Secret Keeper of the Firewrights – and not just any Secret Keeper, but the one on whom all hopes of the future rested – than nestled in the heart of the Firstborn Order? Was it your idea?’

  ‘It was her idea. Agniveshya’s daughter.’ Govinda breathed in deep, as though the smell of lotuses lingered in his thoughts of her, and repeated, ‘It was all her idea.’

  ‘And what would she want for Sanjaya?’

  Govinda smiled. ‘As you wish, Acharya.’

  Dwaipayana stood up and said, ‘Varuna protect you, Govinda. May you live long.’ He left, aided by a young acolyte Govinda had not seen before. The two scholars briefly blocked the sunlight that filtered through the narrow opening of the tent, and then they were gone.

  Govinda turned to his brother and instructed, ‘Let Sanjaya go. And tell Dharma to send Yuyutsu to Hastina right away. He is not to go to the palace, but straight to Vidur. This isn’t about enforcing a claim; we need to make sure that the people are safe in these changing times. Also, tell Dhrstyadymn to double the guards around our camp. This isn’t over as long as Syoddhan lives.’

  Balabadra flinched at the mention of Syoddhan – his old student and dear friend. He nevertheless stood up and made to leave, to carry out Govinda’s instructions. Turning back at the entrance to the tent, he observed, ‘He won’t spare you, you know,’ he observed. ‘Dwaipayana: He appears a benevolent old man but his mind remains sharp, and his wrath just as fiery.’

  ‘Then I shall pay the price.’

  ‘I hope it was worth it, Govinda. For we shall all pay the price with you.’

  ‘You tell me whether it was a worthy sacrifice, Agraja. An individual for a family, a village for a kingdom… an Empire for Humanity.’

  37

  SYODDHAN SAT ON A WELL-ROUNDED ROCK; EXAMINING THE armour that Dron had given him during the war. Wright-metal. The armour of Indra himself… With a sigh, he cast it aside and resumed his activity of throwing pebbles into the glimmering lake.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ he asked the tall warrior who stood nearby.

  ‘Because I owe you my allegiance.’

  ‘And what would you want your liege-lord to do now, Asvattama? Fight at your side? Make a last stand?’

  ‘But of course!’

  Syoddhan laughed, the sound hollow. ‘No, what’s the point of doing that?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I’m no coward, Asvattama. I just don’t see any reason you should die… Aryavarta needs men like you, brave men who can defend it. There is no point in you wasting your life… Go to Hastina and offer your assistance to my father; there is much to be done. Whether you will serve Dharma or not is your choice, but for now, I still am the ruler of this realm. Help me care for my people.’

  ‘What do you mean, Syoddhan?’

  ‘I’ve asked Dharma and his brothers to meet me here, so that I can speak with them. It’s best you go now.’

  ‘And? What would you have me tell Kritavarman and Uncle Kripa? That I ran away, leaving you here alone?’

  ‘Tell them that you followed your king’s orders. I mean it, Asvattama, I order you to go!’

  ‘Syoddhan, please…’

  ‘Go!’

  Defeated, Asvattama acquiesced. ‘All right.’

  ‘Wait!’

  Syoddhan chuckled as the other man turned back, hope alight in his eyes. He then turned grim. ‘Have you any news of Sanjaya?’

  ‘No, but I promise you, Syoddhan, I’ll slit his throat as soon as I see him, the murdering scum.’

  ‘And add to my sins of fratricide? First Vasusena, now Sanjaya…’ He shook his head. ‘It’s bad enough they’ve spent their lives deprived of their right as princes… No, Asvattama, promise me that Sanjaya won’t be harmed.’

  ‘But why? After all that he has done…’

  ‘He had his reasons. In his place, I might have done the same. We deprived him of his rightful status, we drove him to empathize with what he’d been taught was the dark stain upon his family – his great-grandmother and his grandmother, both Firewrights, both women of courage and defiance. He served the Vyasa, yes, but in his heart Sanjaya has always been a Wright… Did you know this?’ Syoddhan asked Asvattama.

  ‘I suspected as much. Especially about his great-grandmother… And when he turned up at Hastina with Devala in tow there was no longer room for doubt. For what it’s worth, Syoddhan, it would not have changed anything between us. Even…’ he hesitated under the weight of his own admission, before saying, ‘Even the Secret Keeper could not change anything between us.’

  ‘I know. You make me think that the Wrights can’t be half as bad as the Firstborn made them out to be… Or will you still give us your old line, that you are an Angirasa but not a Firewright!’

  The two friends laughed together for the last time, their voices ringing through the woods around them.

  ‘I needed that…’ Syoddhan confessed. Standing up, he embraced Asvattama for what he knew might be the last time. ‘Go now, before Dharma arrives… I want to do this alone.’

  Asvattama bowed deep, as he would only before the greatest of men. ‘Rudra protect you, my king,’ he wished Syoddhan and walked into the woods.

  Syoddhan could hear Asvattama untie his horse and ride away. Still smiling, he sat down again at the lake’s edge and continued to entertain himself with the pebbles, watching the dancing ripples on the water’s surface with all the wonder of a child. After a while, he heard footsteps followed by a hushed exchange.

  ‘There he is.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a trap?’

  ‘No,’ Govinda’s familiar voice affirmed, as he emerged from the woods into the small glade. Syoddhan was filled with joy as he recognized the man who just behind Govinda.

  ‘Balabadra!’ Syoddhan was on his feet, bowing low to his mentor. Balabadra was lost for words, but the anguish on his face said it all. Syoddhan, however, was less dismayed. He said, ‘Come now. It is time your student made you proud. I shall live through this with honour or die with dignity. Either way, victory is mine!’

  He smiled at Govinda, who nodded at him in greeting but otherwise remained impassive. Then Syoddhan went forward to meet Dharma, but paused, surprised to see Panchali and her brothers.

  Syoddhan found himself thinking of the day of Dharma’s coronation decades ago, of the few words he and Panchali had shared by a sparkling pond with its exquisite fountain. For the first time he noticed how she looked much like she had that day. Her eyes were still the same haunting, hypnotic ones he remembered from the archery contest at Kampilya, but her bearing had become wiser, stronger, slightly cruel, as an Empress ought to be.

  With a wistful smile, Syoddhan turned away from her to adress Dharma. ‘So, my brother, let us end this where it all began, ge
nerations ago…’

  Dharma was unimpressed. ‘I see. You’ll now lay the blame on our forefathers, will you?’ He glanced around him, and said, ‘Ah yes, the barren tract that was once a riverbed. All that remains of life here is this small lake. Yes, a memorable place for Firewright and Firstborn both. But I fail to see what it has to do with you, Syoddhan.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Syoddhan waved it aside. ‘You once asked me to make peace with you and I refused. I can’t expect you to believe that I had little choice but to refuse or that I have wanted nothing more than peace, with all my heart. Now I have nothing left to restrain me, neither friend nor enemy… And so, Dharma, I ask you now for peace. Peace on any terms you want. Aryavarta is yours, and you are its lawful Emperor. Take anything, everything you want…’

  Dharma opened his mouth to say something but Syoddhan held up a hand and continued, ‘Those I fought for, those who I hoped would rule this earth and revel in its pleasures, are dead. I have nothing to live for, nothing to fight for.’

  Dharma was enraged. ‘How dare you presume I’d take what you throw to me as though I were a beggar? I will win this Empire from you in fair battle, and over your lifeless body!’

  ‘Fair, you say?’ Balabadra interceded. ‘If you truly mean that, Dharma, then allow Syoddhan to rest. You know that he held your men back, single-handed, yesterday. He is tired and wounded and in no position to duel.’

  Dharma then turned on Balabadra. ‘Why should I show this scum, this smear on the honour of my family, any pity? What pity did he show us when we begged from him but five villages in the cause of peace? What kindness did he show us, when we stood forsaken by our own at the dice game? What mercy did he show Panchali when Dussasan dragged her into the assembly by her hair? That insult was but partly avenged with the spilling of Dussasan’s blood, but today it shall be complete.’

  Balabadra made to retort, but Syoddhan rested his hand on his teacher’s shoulder to restrain him. ‘Balabadra asked for justice and fairness, not pity and mercy. Neither he nor I are cowards to grovel at your feet, Dharma. If you wish to settle this in battle, so be it. I am ready. As you can see, my armour lies on the river bank, and I stand before you with nothing but my sword and mace…’

  A dismayed Balabadra appealed in silence to Govinda, and hesitation and doubt flickered across Dharma’s face. But Govinda said nothing. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and stood where he was. Balabadra’s nostrils flared, but he held his temper in check.

  Taking his speechlessness for assent, Dharma nodded at Bhim, who got set for battle, though not without some hesitation. ‘The mace?’ he asked Syoddhan.

  ‘The mace,’ Syoddhan said with an affectionate look at Balabadra, ‘just like in the old days…’

  ‘And I remain stronger than you, Syoddhan, just like it was in the old days,’ Bhim declared.

  The others backed away, letting the two warriors have the sandy lakeside tract for their arena. Then with a great cry, Bhim fell on his opponent, dealing what could have been a killing strike. Syoddhan deftly stepped away and used the opportunity to land a few blows on Bhim, from the side. ‘And I,’ he said, ‘remain more skilled than you. Just like it was in the old days!’

  The statement rankled Bhim. He spun around, swinging his adamantine mace at Syoddhan’s skull. The sheer force of his move made the others move back further, giving both combatants a wider space. This time, Syoddhan did not dodge, but brought his weapon up to repel Bhim’s. He nearly lost his balance with the move, but was well rewarded for his attempt as Bhim took a hit on the face.

  Syoddhan paused as the ensuing cut on Bhim’s left temple bled profusely into his eyes, distracting him. Bhim wiped away the blood even as Dharma shouted at him to move in quickly. Ignoring Dharma’s shouts, Bhim faced Syoddhan. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Once again, the two men flew at each other, this time, their maces ringing in quick succession, swinging and parrying. Despite his injuries, Syoddhan seemed to be doing well. He fought calmly, using skill and strategy.

  Bhim, on the other hand, was beginning to lose his advantage to wrath. He heaped on the taunts and insults, snarling and yelling. It soon became his undoing, as Syoddhan landed the perfect strike to his chest. The blow would have no doubt crushed a weaker man’s heart. Bhim merely staggered back, pausing just long enough to take a deep breath. Then, spitting out the blood and phlegm that had collected in his mouth, he flew at Syoddhan again, trying to catch the man unawares.

  Syoddhan took the blow, returning it with one of his own. Spinning around, he landed a double-handed strike on Bhim’s upper arm, trying to get him to drop his mace. But Bhim held on. He could sense Syoddhan beginning to tire as his wounds, old and new, bled profusely and he began to limp.

  Chests heaving, the two men circled the makeshift arena, biding their time. Bhim watched his opponent closely. Syoddhan’s left leg had to have been injured in the previous day’s encounter, either by an arrow, or when he had been thrown to the ground from his rig. The disadvantage did not show when Syoddhan moved to his right, but he was visibly slower when he had to lead with his left. With a snarl, Bhim rushed Syoddhan, aiming at his right. Syoddhan, however, did not dodge left, as Bhim had expected. Instead he spun around at the very last instant, letting Bhim’s mace miss him by a few fingers. At the same time, though, he raised his own weapon and brought it down hard, once again on Bhim’s arm.

  Bhim felt fire run through him as a bone shattered and his arm was dislodged from its socket. He could feel the searing pain of muscles being torn, and every nerve and sinew in his arm burned and throbbed. ‘Aaah!’ the cry of distress slipped from him as he fell to his knees.

  Syoddhan lowered his weapon and waited.

  ‘Bhim! Are you all right?’ Dharma called out.

  Bhim shut his eyes and doubled over in an effort to combat the ache. At length he raised his head, trying to find the right words to speak, to say some words of sense and possibly conciliation. As he did so, he realized with a start that Syoddhan had not moved back. In fact, Syoddhan stood close by, on Bhim’s right, his mace swinging loose from his hand, the tip resting on the ground.

  Bhim tightened his grip on his own weapon. Then, still kneeling, he lifted his mace and, without warning, struck Syoddhan on his thigh. Syoddhan tried to dodge but his injured leg prevented him from moving fast enough, and he bore the full brunt of the blow. The sound of his bones shattering echoed through the glade.

  Bhim stood up at once, ready to counter and defend but there was no need. Syoddhan had already toppled over, his body an awkward bag of flesh. The blow had broken his pelvic bone, disjoining his legs from his upper body. Four of his ribs had splintered; another three had snapped and jutted out from his stomach like daggers emerging from within. Skin and flesh rent open, Syoddhan’s guts spilled out in a bloody mess.

  ‘You coward! You cheat!’ Balabadra ran forward. ‘By Hara, I’ll kill you for this, Bhim! Hah!’

  ‘No, Balabadra!’ Dharma shouted, as a stunned Bhim staggered back.

  ‘Balabadra, no!’ Syoddhan’s voice was a weak whisper.

  Dharma and Partha ineffectively tried intervene but Balabadra shrugged them off as though they were children. Snarling, he pounced on Bhim.

  Govinda stepped in, quickly wrapping his arms around Balabadra. The two men fell to the ground with the force of their collision, but quickly scrambled to their feet. Before Balabadra could attack again, Govinda bodily restrained him.

  ‘Don’t stop me, Govinda!’ Balabadra shouted, his eyes filled with tears. ‘What world is this? What shame! Are justice and honour dead? Have morality and nobility been overrun by greed and power-lust? How can you let this happen? How can you bear to watch all this?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Govinda confessed. ‘I can’t bear to watch it all. But I must. We must. Yes, the world has come to this… Someday, I may even ask you to spill the blood of those you love the most, to destroy everything. But today, I must ask you to wait… Trust me, bro
ther…’

  Balabadra stopped resisting and let out a sob. Govinda let go. ‘I’m sorry,’ Balabadra said to the collapsed Syoddhan. For all that had happened, the end of the Great War would be nothing more than an anticlimactic admission of victory and defeat.

  Govinda squeezed his brother’s shoulder and went towards the fallen warrior. Ignoring the confused expressions on the others’ faces, he knelt down.

  Syoddhan had the look of a jubilant victor, as he gasped out, ‘So… so it comes to this…I… bear you no malice, Govinda. I hold nothing against…anyone. We…we did what we had to; we fought… for what we believed was right. It was a good battle, and both our victories are… well-won.’

  Govinda lifted the limp man up to a sitting position, bearing his weight. ‘Indeed, you’ve won…’

  ‘To fight… you is an honour. And… that honour is victory.’

  Govinda said, ‘I’m not as good a man as you think.’

  The denial spurred a last burst of strength in Syoddhan. His voice was suddenly clear, but also distant, as though he spoke from far away: ‘So you say. But the truth is, you’ve done right by us all. I go now to the realms of my forefathers, where I shall sit at the head of any table and be the first to drink at every feast. My life is not forfeit; rather, it’s given in a good cause, given as a sacred ritual of sacrifice. If so, you’re its priest, and I have had the privilege of being the sacrificial offering. History shall not speak of you without taking my name too. Yes, they may call us enemies and, perhaps, we’ve lived so but…’ He descended into a fit of coughing, blood spewing from punctured lungs.

  ‘You die as my friend, Syoddhan,’ Govinda completed. ‘I only wish I’d said these words before…’

  Hoarse and faint, Syoddhan rasped, ‘You can say them many times over when we meet again.’ He smiled and closed his eyes. Slowly, his breathing became shallow. Moments later, it stopped.

  Govinda sat still, cradling the dead prince in his arms. He showed no obvious sorrow, but stared into the distance, as though he saw into the past or maybe the future. After some time, he let Syoddhan’s limp form roll to the ground and stood up, covered in the warrior’s blood. It was streaked across his face; it had soaked his robes and stuck in matted clumps to his hair. His palms were red, red and warm. He stared at them, the flaring of his nostrils the single clue to the storm of emotions he hid so well.