AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

  “I have always believed in dharma, Pitamaha,” Yudhishtra said, raising his head. Suyodhana’s lips curved in a smile of derision.

  “Once I have read it aloud, I would like both of you to take the oath by placing a hand over the flame.” Bhishma waited for either of his grand-nephews to speak. When there was no response, he began reading.

  “Rule 1: All battles shall begin after sunrise and end at sunset precisely. Rule 2: A group of warriors shall not attack a single warrior. Rule 3: In a duel, both warriors shall use the same type of weapon and be mounted or remain on foot alike.”

  “How is it possible to ensure such a thing in the heat of battle?” Yudhishtra asked, his broad brow creased in confusion.

  “What is so difficult, cousin? A warrior on foot fights only another warrior on the ground. A mounted warrior fights only another who is mounted, a chariot fights only another chariot, and an elephant another elephant,” Suyodhana said.

  Bhishma nodded and continued. “Rule 4: If a warrior surrenders, he shall not be harmed or killed. He shall be extended the respect due to a prisoner of war and his wounds shall be treated by the Vaidyas of the capturing side. Are both of you clear about this?”

  The cousins nodded. Bhishma adjusted the wick of the lamp and moved closer to the light. “Rule 5: An injured or unarmed warrior shall not be killed. Rule 6: An unconscious warrior shall not be harmed. Rule 7: Water carriers, drummers, Vaidyas and their assistants, scribes reporting to their commanders or rulers, who are not warriors but present on the battlefield, shall not be harmed or killed.”

  “What if they are spies?” Suyodhana asked.

  “Either side may ask the other to remove from the battlefield any man suspected of being a spy, and allow a replacement to be made.”

  “Are such elaborate rules really necessary, or even practical?” Suyodhana asked Bhishma.

  “I fear for those under your command, Suyodhana, if you have not yet grasped the scale and complexity of this war. From north to south, armies are marshalling to fight on one side or the other. Before it ends, death and detruction will stalk this land. The world has never seen anything like it and God willing, never will again. There will be at least eighteen akhshounis in combat. Do you want to fight without rules?”

  Both sides were still trying to assess each other’s strength. Alliances were being forged every day. The numbers were overwhelming.

  “Rule 8: No warrior shall kill or injure another by striking from behind. Rule 9: No warrior shall attack a woman.”

  “That is surely ridiculous. Are women even allowed to fight?” Yudhishtra asked with a smile.

  Bhishma put down the birch leaf and stared at the Pandava Prince. “You are a scholar, Yudhishtra. I trust you have read history. It will serve you well to remember Durga.”

  “But she was a Goddess, Pitamaha, not an ordinary woman.”

  “Do not forget that every woman has the same strength within her. She is not a thing to be pawned.” Yudhishtra looked away, ashamed. “Or to be stripped in public,” added Bhishma. It was Suyodhana’s turn to flush and drop his gaze. “Rule 10: No warrior shall strike a horse or elephant if his life is not threatened.”

  “Even the animals have rules?” Suyodhana asked.

  “Only men break the rules, Suyodhana, not the animals. Every life is precious, be it an ant or a human. So no animal shall be injured unnecessarily. Rule 11: The rules specific to each weapon shall be followed. A warrior shall not be attacked or killed when his bow has broken or he is disarmed. In a mace fight, the warriors shall not hit below the waist.”

  “Pitamaha, we know these basic rules of combat; they were the first lessons we were taught in warrior training at the age of five,” Yudhishtra smiled at the stern-faced patriarch.

  “There is no harm in reminding ourselves, Yudhishtra. The final rule is to fight fairly, in the true spirit of dharma. Kurukshetra is the temple of dharma. History will not forgive or forget those who break the rules of dharma. Remember, the battlefield is one of life’s great levellers. It does not matter whether you are bareheaded or wear a crown. Neither the Gods nor men can escape the laws of karma.”

  Bhishma put the birch leaf back on the table and looked at his grand-nephews. Both sat with bowed heads. There was no going back now. After a moment’s silence, the old man put out his hands over the flame of the lamp saying, “Repeat after me...”

  Yudhishtra was the first to put out his hand. Bhishma waited for Suyodhana to follow.

  “Pitamaha, if I give my word I must then abide by it. I fear that in the heat of battle I may not always be able to follow my oath.”

  “Your cousin has agreed and he, too, is a man of honour, I hope. You are my grand-nephews, scions of the Kuru dynasty, inheritors of the legacy of the great Emperor Bharata. Our dynasty has given its name to our holy land. You are all Bharatas. Let your conduct be worthy. Now, repeat after me...”

  Suyodhana placed his hand over the naked flame but cringed when his fingers touched those of his cousin. Bhishma’s voice filled the room as his grand-nephews repeated his words, the flame of truth their witness.

  “Om. In the name of Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshwara, in the name of the Goddess Adi Parasakthi, the mother of the universe, in the name of the seven sacred rivers of Bharata, in the name of all the mothers of this holy land, in the name of truth and honour, in the name of dharma, I, Gangadutta Devavrata...” Bhishma paused for the cousins to speak their names and then continued, “...do hereby take the oath of honour, and promise to abide by the ancient and sacred rules of dharmayudha; that my men and I shall fight according to the teachings of dharma. I enter the battlefield with the full knowledge that this war is sacred, as is every particle of sand in holy Bharatavarsha. I shall not contemplate or commit any act not in accordance with dharma. I shall strive to uphold what is right and win or lose with honour.”

  When his grand-nephews had repeated the complete vow, Bhishma sat back with a sigh. The die was cast. Death and glory beckoned the brave. Yudhishtra and Suyodhana bowed and took their leave without looking at each other.

  Suyodhana was a worried man. He felt angry at the way Bhishma had manipulated him. The Pitamaha meant well, but he was sure Yudhishtra would not follow the rules he had so blithely agreed to. Even if his cousin was a changed man, as some claimed him to be, Krishna would follow his own rules. Suyodhana knew he faced a ruthless enemy who would stoop to any level to secure victory.

  Suyodhana stood still in the corridor outside Bhishma’s chambers. Intricately carved pillars stood like sentinals on either side, stretching as far as the eye could see. He saw his cousin quickly walking away. The ancient and noble dynasty of the Kurus had always been known to set the highest standards of rightful conduct by Kshatriyas. He was a Kuru scion and he could not dishonour his forefathers by going back on his given word. ‘Yudhishtra, even if you break every rule to win, evil Duryodhana will not, whatever be the provocation,’ he murmured to himself.

  ***

  Vidhura put away the precious parchments and looked up at Bhishma to take his leave. Suddenly Bhishma felt a searing pain and slumped forward, clutching his chest. Vidhura rushed forward saying, “Sir, what has happened? Should I summon the Royal Physician?”

  Bhishma rose slowly, leaning heavily on the table. Vidhura steadied the shaking lamp. “It is nothing, nothing, my son. My time has not yet come...” Acool breeze was blowing but Bhishma’s face shone with perspiration. “Oh, do not fret, Vidhura, it is just lack of exercise. I must start training.”

  Vidhura assisted the old warrior to his bed and then left reluctantly. Bhishma rested a hand on his chest. The pain refused to go away. There was no cure other than death. But he could not go yet... He had to live to ensure that his grand-nephews did not make a mockery of what he had stood for all his life. He had suffered many heartaches... he would live through this one, too. The great war for dharma was about to begin. Death would have to wait.

  *****

  55 DHARMAKSHETRA
r />   SUYODHANA SURVEYED THE BATTLEFIELD from his chariot. As far as the eye could see, armies stretched on either side. The air was rich with the pungent odour of horse and elephant dung. Soon, the stench of blood and gore would mix with them. Vultures had alighted on the treetops, patiently awaiting their reward. It was the smell of war, of death and devastation. Horses neighed in excitement and the ground reverberated with the tread of elephants. Waves of cheering rose on both sides as captains galloped along the ranks, barking orders to their troops. A dry breeze carried fine sand from the barren lands to the south-west, and Suyodhana shielded his eyes from its sting. He stood tall and twanged his bowstring. His army roared. One way or another, this would be his final role as warrior.

  As Suyodhana gauged the men on both sides, so eager to kill and die, he felt a pang of guilt. Was he doing the right thing by imposing such a war on his people, already reeling under the onslaught of drought and famine? But what was the alternative? Should he have given away his birthright to the illegitimate sons of Kunti, allowing them to impose rules that would divide society? If the oppressive jati system of the Southern Confederate was the future of Bharatavarsha, then this war was worth fighting. He was not sure he would win, but fight he would to his last breath. He wanted the throne; he had stopped feeling guilty about that long ago. He wanted it for his people as much as for himself. Once, when Karna had asked him why he so blatantly admitted this selfish desire, Suyodhana had said that it made him feel more human. No ambition was purely selfless or selfish, acknowledging it honestly to oneself made life much simpler. To Karna’s embarrassment, he had told him that he had acted on impulse, prompted by a sense of justice when he had made him, a Suta, King of Anga. But later, when he had thought about it, he admitted there had also been an element of selfishness in the act. He had wanted Karna to fight for him and be a deterrent to Arjuna. Karna had protested, professing eternal friendship, but Suyodhana had replied that no one could predict the future. The words had been uttered half in jest, but now they proved to be the simple truth. Karna was not by his side when he needed him the most.

  Bhishma was about to sound the conch to start the battle when a chariot from the Pandava side rushed into the middle of the vast field. It halted between the battle-ready armies. Bhishma raised his hand to signal a halt. The emblem on the chariot’s flag had Hanuman – it was Arjuna’s chariot! Why was the Pandavas’ most celebrated warrior taking the huge risk of exposing himself, wondered Suyodhana, his brow furrowed under his crested helmet. One arrow from the massed ranks could take Arjuna down. But he had given his word to Bhishma that there would be no transgression of the codes of war. He too lifted his arm to halt his men.

  Bhishma’s gaze met Arjuna’s across the field of battle. He raised a hand in benediction upon his grand-nephew, saying, “Vijayai Bhava”. Suyodhana saw the gesture and seethed with rage. Where did the old man’s loyalty rest, with the army he commanded or the illegitimate sons of Kunti? Had Karna’s removal been a deliberate ploy? Suyodhana’s troubled gaze travelled to Drona, who was looking at Arjuna and Krishna. Were the Guru’s eyes shining with admiration for his favourite disciple? Were they all making a fool of him? Who was there on his side whom he could trust implicitly? Shalya was Nakula and Sahadeva’s uncle. Kritavarma was the Commander of Krishna’s famed Narayana Sena. And who could predict what Kripa would or would not do? He was unsure of his Uncle Shakuni and his brother-in-law, Jayadratha. Yes, his brothers would stand by him. But the only person he could trust completely in the whole army was Aswathama. How he wished Karna was with him! The war appeared unwinnable, but it was too late to retreat.

  As Suyodhana looked at the ordinary foot soldiers who had no agenda other than to serve him, a lump formed in his throat. What had he done to deserve their love? His treasury was almost empty and they had not been paid for two weeks. On the other side, Yuyutsu was tempting everyone with fantastic gifts in this world and Krishna was offering heaven in the next. His opponents had everything – money, the Confederate forces looting the countryside for supplies, an avatar who inspired fear of hell and promised moksha, and spin masters who portrayed their side as the epitome of dharma and him as the devil. Yet, Suyodhana, who had little to offer, still had eleven akhshounis against the Pandava’s seven. People were still ready to die for their Crown Prince, evil or righteous.

  Suyodhana laughed at the irony. His men were daring the priests and philosophers of the land who had made their lives miserable. They had aligned under his leadership, rejecting Yuyutsu’s money and Krishna’s moksha, laughing at the priests who tried to scare them with the promise of hell and an endless cycle of lives as worms, women or untouchables. They had trusted him over the peddlers of dharma, ready to fight on half empty stomachs, willing to die so that their children could have a better tomorrow. The responsibility and trust they had reposed in him felt overwhelming. Fight he would, and win. He was a man with human frailties, but his dreams were big. Such dreams should not wither away, else there would be no hope for his country or the world.

  Suyodhana gripped his mace and said a prayer. He felt inexplicably powerful. Dharma was on his side and dharma would win. He was ready to fight. He looked over at Arjuna, expecting to encounter a look of defiant hatred from the Pandava. To his surprise, he saw Arjuna throw down his bow and collapse to the floor of his chariot.

  *****

  56 THE SCEPTIC

  AS ARJUNA GAZED AT THE VAST ARMIES on both sides, ready to drench the earth with blood, he was overcome by despair and despondency. He threw down his bow and sat in his chariot, his head bent, his shoulders stooped.

  “Krishna, when I see Pitamaha, my Gurus and my kin standing facing me on the other side, my throat feels parched with sorrow, my heart sinks. What sins am I to commit? They are my kin, after all, these warriors of the Kuru race, and you are asking me to slay them! How can I shoot my Pitamaha, who has always loved me? How can I fight Guru Drona, whose affection for me is greater than his love for his own son? My Uncle Shalya is opposing me, so are so many others I have always loved and respected. Duryodhana may be arrogant and brash, but he is my cousin. Does not the throne belong to him by right? Am I not the bandit trying to steal it from him? I cannot fight, Krishna. It is better they kill me and take everything from us. For if we win, I will not be able to sleep with so much blood on my hands. The kingdom is not worth it. Nothing is worth this bloody war that you are urging me to fight. Leave me alone, Vasudeva. I do not want to fight.”

  Krishna looked down at his friend and put a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder. “Arjuna, you are deluded by false compassion. You are haunted by imaginary fears. Listen to me.”

  “No, Krishna. You want me to kill my own people, the Kurus. Have you not heard that with the death of the warriors of a kula, the customs of that race are lost? When customs are lost, women go astray. They become free without their masters and the intermingling of castes can occur. Their sons are kulaheen, without caste, and ineligible to do pitrukarma for their ancestors. If their sons do not perform the last rites, the souls of all the Kuru warriors will descend into hell. It is sin, sin, sin. I will not fight my own people. What enmity do I have with the warriors fighting just for their livelihood? No, do not make me commit such a crime.”

  “Arjuna, do not be effeminate. You are being deluded by false compassion. You are inviting infamy. Future generations will call you a coward for running away from battle.”

  “Krishna, have you too not run from the battlefield, years before, unable to face the wrath of the great Jarasandha?”

  “I retreated as a strategy, not from cowardice. You are being a coward, Arjuna. All this talk of compassion is just an excuse to hide your fear of failure.”

  “Krishna, how can bhakti towards one’s Guru be called cowardice? How can you call devotion to Pitamaha illusion? If I can hear the cries of widows and children in my ears, and if my soul tells me there is no need for this war, how am I a coward? It takes more courage to walk away from here than to fight in a war in
which I no longer believe,” Arjuna retorted, dismay and sorrow filling his heart in equal measure.

  Krishna smiled at the anger flaring in Arjuna. Good, his words were awakening the warrior in his friend. “Arjuna, you mourn for those who do not deserve to be mourned. There is nothing worse than false sympathy. You talk like the atheists who believe they are wise but are, in fact, misled souls. Your words may sound right superficially, but that is because you are not using your intellect to delve deeper. Death is just a part of life.”

  “I do not understand, Krishna.”

  “Partha, just as boyhood, youth and old age are in one’s body and manifest themselves at the appropriate time, so is death. But what dies is born again. That is the eternal law of karma. Death and birth are like day and night. Do we mourn the night when we rejoice at the birth of a new day? To the wise, just as day and night are part of nature, so are life and death.”

  “Krishna, you trivialise death. I can understand death when its time comes, but not murder. You are asking me to kill. It is not dharma.”

  Krishna waved his arms at the vast Kuru and Pandava armies and said, “You think you can kill them or they can kill you? You doubt, because you do not know who you are. You are not the body; you and your body are separate. Understand that the body is just a garment that hides the real you; the body is just a covering for the atman, the soul. The soul is eternal and unchanging. There is no death for the soul. Just as you change your clothes when they are dirty, soiled or torn, the soul changes bodies. Death is nothing but the casting away of old clothes by the divine atman.”

  “What good would it do to my soul to fight this war and win a kingdom, since it would be my body that would enjoy the pleasures of kingship and feel the pain of killing my kinsmen? Should I fight for the enjoyment of my body, which is just a cloth waiting to be cast aside? If only the atman matters, what good would this victory do me? Am I not being foolish to tend to my body, when I should be feeding my soul?”