The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (33 page)

‘So, when my father turned her away, Amba laid a curse on the heads of Panchala’s kings. And she threw the string of Wright-metal beads she wore – the sign of her being a Wright – in my father’s face. I guess she was too angry to aim well, because it fell on a small carving on a pillar instead!’

Subadra was startled at Shikandin’s sudden jovial tone. ‘How do you know all this?’ she challenged.

The Panchala prince thought for a moment, then reached inside his tunic to pull out a thin, astoundingly flexible chain of beads made of the silver-white metal that was the hallmark of the Wrights. He handed the chain to Subadra, who reverently examined it. ‘I was a bit of a truant, as a boy,’ Shikandin went on in the same light-hearted way. ‘I was hardly seven years old when I took the beads off the pillar and wore them. By Rudra, that was one thrashing I won’t forget, even after all these years! I thought my father wouldn’t stop till he had killed me…’

‘Is that why…you and your father…?’ Subadra asked.

‘One of the reasons, yes,’ Shikandin confirmed. ‘But there is more. Some say Amba immolated herself, praying that she return as a man in her next life to avenge her torment at Bhisma’s hands. Others say she was captured and tortured, burnt alive. I wouldn’t be shocked if the latter were true.’

Subadra gasped. ‘Surely…?’

‘I’ve seen such things with my own eyes, Subadra. I was once one of the many soldiers who were tasked with hunting down Firewrights. Yet, most of those who died were innocent forest dwellers.’

‘Like Kshtradharman’s mother?’

‘Yes. Hers was a better fate than others of her kind. You see, the women…the soldiers often burnt them alive. The forest dwellers used to believe that the spirits of these women would watch over them, that the power of their pain and sacrifice would protect those who lived. They worshipped the stones where the women were tied down and immolated as they would a goddess. A goddess they call Amba.’

To that, Subadra had no reply. She and Shikandin watched, silent, as Yudhamanyu and Abhimanyu brought their practice to an end. The two young were were now talking, exchanging notes on technique and form. Around them, the sounds of activity grew louder, as preparations for the day’s battle began.

‘Do you really think that killing the Grandsire will bring you peace, Shikandin?’ Subadra whispered. ‘I know you’ve suffered a lot, especially at your own father’s hands, but do you really think avenging yourself against Bhisma will heal those wounds or set back time?’

‘It’s not about revenge…’ Shikandin’s voice was hoarse, as he explained, ‘Amba – what happened to her was not right. We let her down. The Kings of Panchala failed.’

‘But…’

‘I can’t quite explain, Subadra. I don’t believe in curses or magic, but I do believe that the Universe has its own balance. I was not there to prevent her fate, but the truth is also that I have not always done what I can to stop other wrongs from happening. Now I must set it right in whatever way I can. It’s a need so deep, that I sometimes feel that the spirit of Amba lives on in me.’

Shikandin took the beads back from Subadra and studied them briefly, as if trying to see the woman who had once worn them. He then slipped them over his head, setting them under the folds of his tunic. ‘I’ve known about Govinda, about his being a Firewright, for longer than most people realize. In fact, what happened in Northern Panchala – the canals and the water wheels that continue to irrigate the land till today – I was as much a part of as Asvattama was. It didn’t matter who ruled that land; neither Asvattama nor I cared about that. Our people were dying and Govinda and the Firewrights helped us to save them. I owe a great debt to the Wrights. It is time I repaid it.’

‘I am afraid,’ Subadra confessed.

‘Of what?’

‘Of the change that is inevitable! I mean…this is Bhisma, the patriarch of the Kurus and the most respected man in all of Aryavarta. To kill him is to destroy our way of life!’

‘You’ve been listening to Partha rave and rant, haven’t you?’ Shikandin said. ‘We can’t fear change, simply because it’s unfamiliar. Change is like weeding a garden… But this, the way things are around us, this is an entire maggot-infested tree! No matter how much you prune it, it decays from the inside and the fruits just keep rotting. The tree must be uprooted, chopped and burnt. Destroyed.’

‘But what is lost is lost! Who will replace it? What replaces it?’

‘Nature replaces the tree. Society, humanity will develop a new system.’

‘And what’ll become of us? We too are part of this uprooted tree, like it or not. My son is one of the fruits that grow on this tree. Is there no hope for him?’

‘It isn’t what we are, but what purpose we serve that matters,’ Shikandin said. ‘Whether this tree stands or not isn’t ours to choose. What we must choose, however, is what we shall do when it falls. We must choose what we will be…what our children will be…the putrid, rotten tree that contaminates the soil it grows in, the benign wood that fires the hearth, or…’ he smiled at the thought.

‘Or?’

‘Or we can all be the logs that burn at the sacrificial altar, the sacred wood of the yajna-homa.’

‘Now it seems to me that you’ve been listening to Govinda!’ Subadra’s voice was serious as she said, ‘You’ve thought through all this before, haven’t you, Shikandin?’

‘Yes, I have. I thought it through and made my peace with it a long time ago…’

‘But to kill Bhisma… It is not only dangerous but also…’

‘Dishonourable?’ Shikandin snorted in disdain. ‘Don’t you see? There is no greater weapon than reducing your opponent to nothingness. A man cannot kill the Grandsire, for it would bring dishonour upon him as a warrior. Amba could not fight him because she was a woman and not considered his equal to begin with. I would rather be a eunuch who fights the Grandsire than be emasculated by honour.’

Another silence prevailed, this one uncomfortable. Eventually Shikandin said, ‘I’d better go and find Govinda. We need to run through the battle plan for today. I’ll see you this evening, then.’

‘Rudra protect you Shikandin, and may the sun shine bright on your sword today.’

Shikandin walked away before Subadra could say anything more. He thought he heard her whisper a prayer for his protection, but he did not look back.

9

PARTHA AND SHIKANDIN RODE INTO BATTLE SIDE BY SIDE. JUST
behind them were Abhimanyu and Yudhamanyu, while Pradymna and Uttamaujas rode on their left, Uttamaujas proudly bearing a banner with the sign of his forest people: a gentle dove with falcons’ claws. Pradymna surveyed their formation and said, ‘This should be good. Any takers on a wager?’

‘After where a dice game has brought us?’ Yuyudhana bantered.

‘What?’ Shikandin joined in. ‘A Yadu who doesn’t want to gamble? That’s unheard of!’

‘Just for that, fifty gold coins say Bhisma will avoid battle with you.’

‘Where’s the chance in that?’

Laughing, the men got set to engage the enemy.

By afternoon, it was no longer a matter for jest. Shikandin had been right. It was impossible to engage Bhisma. As soon as any one of Dharma’s warriors neared the Grandsire, he found himself suddenly facing Asvattama or Dron instead.

As the battle drew on, Asvattama became Shikandin’s shadow. It had become clear to Syoddhan and his warriors that Shikandin now had the task of battling the Grandsire. It had also become apparent that Partha could not bring himself to so much as hurt or disarm Bhisma, for time and again the patriarch came within feet of him and escaped unscathed. Govinda’s angry curses could be heard across the battlefield.

Yudhamanyu was equally irate. ‘What a waste, Father,’ he pointed out to Shikandin as the two men took positions alongside each other, releasing their arrows in tandem. ‘The Grandsire would have been dead twenty times over if that had been you instead of Partha. Instead, here we are, exchanging pleasantries with Asvattama!’

‘That is
King
Asvattama to you,’ Shikandin corrected, though not unkindly. ‘But I must say, Yudhamanyu, you’ve just given me an idea.’

‘What idea?’

‘Never mind. Listen to me. I’m going to keep Asvattama distracted while you and Abhimanyu move the three of us into position.’

‘All right. But what position?’

‘You see Dron there? He’s moving directly towards where Govinda and Partha are circling Bhisma. Now, I want you to take us towards the same point. Asvattama is bound to follow, but if I keep him occupied…’

Yudhamanyu was all excitement. ‘He’ll crash into his father, or better still, into Bhisma!’

‘Just as long as he doesn’t crash into us. Ready now.’

Hardly had Yudhamanyu and Abhimanyu exchanged hushed whispers and passed instructions on to their charioteers than Asvattama began a fresh attack. ‘Perfect!’ Shikandin muttered as he began to counter the offensive.

Yudhamanyu cheered as Asvattama reeled under the onslaught. The young man notched an arrow to his bowstring, only to have Shikandin shout at him, ‘It is a war, you brat! Follow orders or I’ll have you whipped for insubordination! Muhira!’ With a mix of trepidation and pride, Yudhamanyu obeyed, as Abhimanyu threw some banter his way.

Shikandin turned his attention back to Asvattama, who had fitted what looked like a misshaped arrow to his bow. Raising his bow, he let free the arrow. A shout went up from Nakul as he saw the attack, for the arrow came in swifter than the eye could see. All over the battlefield, men watched Shikandin. To everyone’s surprise, he returned a single arrow. His aim was impeccable. The tip of his arrow hit Asvattama’s strange weapon at the precise point where a tightly wound strip of metal was uncoiling loose as the weapon spun through the air. The tiny mechanism jammed for an instant, then went on unwinding. Shikandin’s arrow fell to the ground, humble and spent. But it had done its task. What should have been a cluster of tiny barbs hurled into the air, were now pieces of metal falling harmlessly to the ground. Bereft of all grandeur and awe, the Wright-made weapon was nothing more than a shiny trinket.

Dharma’s armies shouted out for joy, making the Grandsire pause to glance in Shikandin’s direction. Shikandin caught the movement and realized how close he now was to Bhisma. But another look around told him that Dron and Kripa were closer still. Resolute, he got set to face Asvattama again.

In his languorous way, Asvattama took up another weapon. Again, a single arrow fitted to his bow, Shikandin watched. Despite the intensity of the moment, he could not help but feel a pang of pity. Once, Asvattama had told him that no Firewright student was taught to wield a weapon without being made to memorize the science behind its function, the instructions for the weapon’s use. In the aftermath of the Great Scourge, metaphor had morphed into magic, sanctifying and legitimizing the same weapons that had once been spurned, deeming them celestial. And now a disappointed Shikandin saw that just like any other Firstborn-trained warrior, Asvattama too muttered the astra incantation that went with his chosen weapon, as though he were infusing it with some otherworldly power.

In that instant, Shikandin felt doubt hit him anew. When even Asvattama, one of the wisest men and, without doubt, the best warrior he knew had succumbed to the way of life dictated by the Firstborn, what hope did that leave for the commoners of Aryavarta?
Perhaps
, he reasoned,
the existence of the hierarchical ways of Aryavarta was proof that Divine Order is the ultimate purpose of all life. If not, if this were wrong and equality the true way of life, surely things would not be the way they are
.

The distraction proved deadly. Asvattama’s bow twanged. Reacting at once, Shikandin let loose an arrow in response. He missed his target by a finger’s breadth. Cries of alarm sounded out. ‘Father!’ Shikandin heard Yudhamanyu shout. But the warning came too late.

Asvattama’s Wright-made arrow had now become a bunch of serrated discs, all of which hurtled ominously towards Shikandin. One of the discs cut right through the wheel of his chariot, breaking the wooden axle. His horses pulled wild, driven by mortal terror. The strain was too much for the light rig to take. It shattered, wood and metal flying in all directions.

Shikandin hit the ground with a hard thud, raising cheers of victory from Dron and Kripa. The battlefield erupted in the frenzied madness that inevitably accompanied the fall of a commander or notable warrior. Asvattama stared, expressionless, at what remained of his opponent and his rig. Only when the dust had settled completely did he allow himself the faintest of smiles.

Shikandin was nowhere to be seen.

10

‘
HOW KIND OF YOU TO PULL MY ARM OFF!
’
SHIKANDIN SAID
, though his tone lacked complaint. His chest racked in a great cough as all the dust he had swallowed came back up to his mouth. He spat it out with a grimace, paused to gather himself and then he was ready. He still held on to his bow, but the bowstring had broken during the fall. Shikandin pulled out a spare string from his waistband and began fitting it to his bow.

Partha stared, incredulous. He just could not understand how Shikandin had survived Asvattama’s arrows as well as the fall from his smashed chariot, and now stood dominating the small confines of their battle-rig with his towering height. Nor could he figure out how Govinda had known exactly when to turn their vehicle, scramble onto the rig’s crosspole while holding the reins in one hand, and hoist Shikandin on board using his other hand as they raced past where he lay.

‘It’s a long story…’ Govinda said, in response to the unstated question. ‘Later. Are you ready, Shikandin?’

‘Yes.’

Partha understood. Govinda alone could get Shikandin close enough to Bhisma Devavrata for the latter to strike. All he needed was the brief time it would take for Dron and the Grandsire’s protectors to realize that Shikandin did not lie dead under the debris of his rig, as they would have expected. A low murmur rolled across the battlefield as everyone saw that this time the attack on Bhisma was of a different nature.

The Grandsire raised his bow. He cast a reluctant glance at Partha, and then pulled out a silver-white weapon that resembled an arrow but was thicker and clearly heavier. With a whispered incantation and an obvious snarl, he fired. Partha began to cry out a warning to his companions, but before he was finished, Shikandin let loose a defensive arrow. The sleek shaft sped through the air and hit Bhisma’s heavier weapon with a sharp crack. It took some time for those on the battlefield to realize that not only had Shikandin’s arrow managed to render motionless the mechanism of the silver-white weapon, but it had also hit it at a weak joint, smashing the weapon to pieces before it could pose any threat. Bhisma glared at his new attacker, his intentions clear to all on the battlefield: Partha or no Partha, he would no longer show his enemy any mercy.