The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (41 page)

‘It’s all right for them to die, Abhimanyu. Everything that begins also ends. All who are born must die some day. You’re a warrior, my son. There’s no room for fear of death in your heart.’

Abhimanyu had thought hard, trying to make what sense a child could of such morbid and mundane things. ‘So dying is just what comes after living? Like night comes after day?’

‘Yes,’ Partha had gushed, relieved.

But Abhimanyu had still not understood. He had asked, ‘What’s the point of dying if you haven’t finished living?’

Partha had not answered then. Instead, he had diverted the conversation to other topics. In all these years neither had Abhimanyu asked him such a question again nor had he referred to that day’s incident, but Partha had always treasured the memory of his dear son sleeping peacefully on his lap. And now Abhimanyu’s tall, lean form lay limp on the ground, his head on Pradymna’s knee.
What’s the point of dying, Abhimanyu? You haven’t even begun living yet
.

The young man’s body was a mangled slime of pounded flesh and shreds of skin; his broken armour had been crushed right into his chest, past muscle and bone, causing what remained of his inner organs to spill out in a mix of metal shards. It was as though a demon from the netherworld had gorged on the young man’s flesh and spit out the remains.

Partha looked around him, searching, as tears slowly blurred his vision. He needed Govinda, he needed his strength, his equanimity, the island of reason in the sea of despair that now surrounded them. His eyes fell on Panchali. Her face held pain, anger and an eerie, terrifying blankness. She did not weep, nor was she numbed with sorrow or shock. Panchali simply observed, her gaze constantly shifting from the lifeless Abhimanyu to the inconsolable Subadra, the silent Dhaumya and then to the motionless Pradymna. Partha did not know whether it was the desire to escape his grief or the fury he felt at Panchali’s composure, but he heard himself speaking in a voice that was not his own: ‘I trusted you, Govinda. I trusted you and followed your every lead. Look where that has brought me…’

Govinda did not seem to hear or care; he remained kneeling beside Abhimanyu, unmoving. Eventually, he stirred, reaching for the piece of bloody linen that shrouded Abhimanyu’s face, but Shikandin stopped him. ‘No, Govinda. Not now.’ He nodded towards the wailing Subadra.

‘How?’ Govinda asked.

‘Dron formed the wheel.’

‘And you sent
Abhimanyu
to break it?’

Shikandin hung his head in shame.

‘We were right behind him, Govinda,’ Dharma said. ‘We had no intention of putting him in harm’s way.’

‘Then…how?’

‘Jayadrath. Shikandin tried, but…’

Govinda looked at Shikandin for the first time since he had walked into the tent. Bloody and torn, Shikandin had yet to see to his own wounds or cast off his armour.

Partha, however, was not comforted by the explanation. His rage at the enemy, at his friends, at the whole world spilt forth in his words: ‘I swear by the gods, by the honour of my forefathers, that monster Jayadrath shall die before the sun sets on tomorrow! Let those who live a thousand years hence remember the day of the eclipse as the day of ill portents. Let this be the black day when Partha had his vengeance! I swear by my son’s immortal soul, if his killer lives at the end of tomorrow’s battle I shall burn myself on his funeral pyre!’

An awed silence followed Partha’s declaration. Bhim and the twins traded uncertain glances, not at their brother’s oath but at the pride and moral satisfaction that flickered across Dharma’s face.

Govinda turned to Partha, his eyes red, anger clear in the bulging veins on his forehead. ‘You pathetic, miserable, fool!’ he hissed.

Partha was stunned. He made to speak, but Govinda rose to his feet, his voice a raging growl, ‘How you can be so damned stupid? You self-obsessed, vain excuse of a man…you’ve just destroyed us all! All Dron has to do is keep Jayadrath alive tomorrow and victory is his!’

‘Yabha!’ Partha was shouting. ‘How can you? How can think of victory and defeat at a time like this, you selfish bastard?’

‘Because this boy died for your godforsaken victory, that’s why!’ Govinda’s voice thundered through the tent and beyond, stunning everyone who heard it. Then they all saw the anguish in his eyes.

At that, Partha’s strength failed and, falling to his knees, he buried his head in his hands and wept. One by one, everyone in the tent clustered around Govinda, wailing and bemoaning their loss. Subadra clutched at his leg as if she were drowning. Pradymna stood close by, silent and ashen-faced and, as the news spread through the camp, even the bravest and boldest of soldiers cried out in mourning. Govinda clenched his jaw and said nothing as their collective grief poured down on him, letting it wash over him without flinching. Panchali alone remained where she had been, as she had been. She did not cry.

Abhimanyu was not the only dead soldier from their army, but Govinda and the others had neither time nor men to spare to protect their numerous dead from scavengers or to see to their cremation, for a host of tasks remained: A count to be taken of the living and plans made for the next day’s battle. Those injured and dying had to be brought back to camp and made comfortable, while those with a chance of survival needed tending to by the medics. Neither Partha nor his brothers were in any position to discharge their daily responsibilities, and all arrangements, mundane and otherwise, fell to Shikandin, Govinda and Yuyudhana. Dhrstyadymn left, as usual, to check on the weapons and the men.

It was well past midnight and all was quiet by the time a tired, aching Govinda returned to where Abhimanyu lay. He found Uttara sitting alone by the dead warrior’s side. She was calm, her hand placed on Abhimanyu’s chest as though he were asleep. Govinda felt an unbearable bolt of agony shoot through him. He longed to grieve, truly grieve for Uttara’s sake.

A voice intruded on his dark thoughts. ‘I’ll take care of her,’ Dhaumya said and went over to Uttara. He helped the young princess to her feet and proceeded to lead her away. Govinda’s shoulders slumped and he felt sick to the stomach. Uttara, he realized, still did not believe that her husband was dead. He quailed to think what would happen when she emerged from her traumatised daze.

Finally, he was alone with his Abhimanyu. The boy he had loved as a son. As Panchali’s son, as the future for which they had been willing to give up their happiness.

With a heavy heart, Govinda set about preparing for Abhimanyu’s funeral. Somehow, he wrested off the hacked armour and picked the shards out of the mangled flesh underneath. He bandaged up the boy’s crushed chest, swathing him with linen till nothing could be seen of the disfigured torso. Then he pulled away the cloth that covered Abhimanyu’s face.

‘Hai, Rudra!’ The sight was enough to make him exclaim and turn away. The right side of Abhimanyu’s face, his eye, his ear were gone. All that remained was a red mass of flesh and pieces of bone, with nothing more than a few clumps of matted, curly hair to suggest that this had once been a handsome human being. Govinda turned back, resolute, and continued his preparations. He bandaged Abhimanyu’s head, covering it completely, and ran another piece of linen across his face. He then wiped the blood off Abhimanyu’s neck and hands and sat back, fists clenched and chest heaving.

Just when Govinda thought he could take it no more, he felt a comforting touch on his back. Shikandin and Yuyudhana were there. Behind them, his eyes red from weeping but jaw set in a stern expression, was Yudhamanyu. He leant, for support, on an equally grim Uttamaujas. Working together, the five men carried Abhimanyu’s limp form to the far corner of the campsite, where thousands of pyres had been lit over the past twelve days. A few still crackled on in an inappropriately merry blaze, while the rest were but piles of gray ash that marked the end of the end.

The five men moved slowly, readying Abhimanyu’s bier log by log, each man piling wood on to the final form as though letting go of a memory or hope. Finally, they placed the dead warrior’s body on the woodstack, but made no move to light it – that task would be Partha’s after the next day’s battle. Govinda muttered words of prayer the others could not catch and turned away. He stared at the blue-black sky, searching for solace in the stars. Yudhamanyu let out a moan as his loss hit him once again. In an unexpected show of emotion he turned to Shikandin, resting his forehead on his father’s shoulder. Uttamaujas laid a consoling hand on his brother’s back as Yuyudhana looked from one of his companions to the other, trying his best to remain strong for them all. At length, he called them gently to take the ritual plunge in the nearby river before heading back.

As the five men entered their camp, Pradymna and Dhrstyadymn came up to meet them, prompting Govinda to speak. ‘Pradymna,’ he instructed, ‘bring me the rest of my weapons. I have only my sword.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Yes, I mean my astra-weapons. Don’t pretend to be shocked; you’ve always known that I’ve owned many. Also, tell Daruka to be ready. I may need a charioteer of my own.’

‘But…’ Yuyudhana began.

‘Jayadrath will die tomorrow. If Partha fails to kill him, I’ll do it. I’ll break my promise if I have to; dishonour is not new to me. I can’t let Partha die… I owe him a great debt, one that I will willingly pay with my life, my honour, whatever is mine to give… If Partha hadn’t spoken up that day, after the dice game, if he hadn’t gone against Dharma’s authority… I can’t bear to imagine what could have happened to Panchali. For that I owe Partha my life and my soul.’

Yuyudhana swallowed hard and nodded while Shikandin grit his teeth at the memory of those bitter events. Dhrstyadymn opened his mouth to speak, but found he had nothing to say.

‘Besides,’ Govinda continued, ‘without Partha, this war is lost anyway. Our men have long believed that he is invincible, that he alone can decimate the enemy. They fight because he fights. His despair this evening has already weakened them as much as Abhimanyu’s death has. They know Acharya Dron is a trained Firewright and over these two days he has proved himself a splendid Commander. Our armies already consider tomorrow’s battle to be lost, and if we lose Partha as well they will surrender – Dharma first of all. Do you see him facing Dron, Asvattama, Syoddhan or Vasusena? Let’s not forget Kritavarman fights for them too.’

Dhrstyadymn grabbed Govinda’s hand. ‘Let’s finish this ourselves, Govinda. Damn these spineless Kurus and their farce of a war! Between you and Shikandin, you can kill off every rabid dog in that pack. If there’s anyone left, Yudhamanyu, Uttamaujas, Pradymna and I can clean up. Let’s do this, Govinda! For Abhimanyu! For Panchali!’

A sad smile crept on to Govinda’s lips. Slowly, he shook his head to say no. He walked off, leaving the others staring after him, astonished.

‘Why?’ Yuyudhana asked.

Shikandin said what Govinda had not. ‘Because, ultimately, each soldier here must fight this battle for one reason and one reason alone. And no one can tell you what your reason must be.’

20

A LITTLE BEFORE DAWN, PANCHALI WAITED IN FRONT OF THE
empty command tent for everyone to assemble. She raised a questioning eyebrow as Pradymna, arrayed in his battle-mail and carrying a large bundle of weapons, walked by.

‘I…Father…he insists that if Partha doesn’t kill Jayadrath…’ Pradymna said. Panchali made to respond, but stopped as the others of their council began to arrive.

Dhrstyadymn was in conversation with Shikandin. ‘…confidence has never been so low,’ he was saying. ‘We are already down in numbers compared to Syoddhan’s armies, and I’ve heard talk, this morning, of surrender and defection…’

Dharma’s voice intruded, ‘That would not be defection, it would be desertion! Such talk, such thought, is treason. It is a crime, one punishable by death!’ Partha said nothing but Bhim and the twins nodded in agreement. ‘Even Syoddhan wouldn’t stoop to admit traitors into his ranks…’ Dharma finished.

‘Would you admit men who claimed they had realized Syoddhan was unrighteous or unjust, or soldiers who claimed to have been coerced or misled into fighting for him, into your ranks, Dharma?’ Shikandin asked.

‘That’s different!’

‘How convenient…’ Dhrstyadymn mumbled.

The loud trill of a war-horn called for the army to muster for the day’s battle, just as Dhaumya joined them, along with Subadra and a red-eyed Uttara. She had, Dhaumya had told them, come forward to lead her men as she always did, but just looking at her sword had made her relapse into tears. That Uttara, the woman whose courage had not failed when her brothers and fellow citizens had died in front of her, could lose heart was a blow to them all.

Together, they watched as the soldiers fell grudgingly into their ranks, their discontent and fear palpable. Sergeants walked up and down the lines, trying to control the muttered exchanges, the general sense of indiscipline that the men showed, but their will too was visibly lacking and their efforts seemed feeble. Yuyudhana and Yudhamanyu were overseeing the muster, riding up and down the various lines. Finally, they came over to report to Dharma and Dhrstyadymn.

‘We have a problem,’ Yuyudhana said. ‘I’m not sure we can get the men on to the field in formation, leave alone make them fight…’

‘I was sitting around the campfires last night, talking to some of them,’ Yudhamanyu supplemented, ‘They don’t think we can do it… Not against Wright-magic…’

‘What!’ Dharma exclaimed.

‘The truth is, they don’t trust us, their leaders, anymore…’

‘What nonsense is this?’ Dharma shouted and then softened down as he noticed Partha flinch. Still angry, he hissed, ‘What is this talk of trusting and believing? Who dared speak such cowardly words? I want those soldiers executed here and now.’

‘Come now, Dharma! Our men are afraid, that is all,’ Yuyudhana tried to pacify him, while Yudhamanyu drew Dhrstyadymn aside.

‘Uncle,’ Yudhamanyu began, ‘I mean it. Their faith in our ability to lead them is shattered. After what happened to Abhimanyu, each man thinks death and defeat are inevitable… If a warrior like Abhimanyu, one we all would have given our lives to protect, was not safe, then…’