The moment Karna once again stepped into the chariot, an arrow struck his thigh and fell off. He shot back in anger, pinning Uthayan’s hand to the shaft of the canopy above him. Karna could see blood spurting from the wound as the Asura King tried to free his hand. He toyed with the idea of sending an arrow into the throat of his foe, but remembered Uthayan had not shot him when he was out of his chariot. Instead, Karna’s next arrow pinned Uthayan’s other hand, causing him to close his eyes in pain. The Confederate forces rushed forward to prevent Karna from killing one of their Kings. Even in his pinned position, Uthayan barked commands and the army closed in. The warriors of Kalinga surrounded Karna. He attempted to keep them at bay, but the circle was shrinking fast.
When all seemed lost, Karna saw the Brahmin warrior from Kalinga, the man who had plunged into the enemy ranks. He had managed to stay alive and reach the rear of the enemy lines. Karna saw a flame-tipped arrow rise high into the sky and fall deep into the Confederate elephant corps. For a moment nothing happened, then the first elephant ran amok, smashing into the one ahead of it. The second elephant turned back, enraged, breaking rank and starting a stampede. The panicked elephants charged, trampling friend and foe alike. The smell of poisonous herbs and powders pervaded the air. There were explosions everywhere. Oil pots burst and catapults discharged, creating ever more panic and rage in the elephants.
The horses, struggling to get free, dragged Karna’s chariot hither and thither. An elephant smashed into Uthayan’s chariot, toppling it. The mammoth gored the horses with its iron-capped tusks and crushed the Chera King’s chariot into rubble. There was no way Uthayan could have survived that, thought Karna. But before he could indulge in a sense of relief, he was thrown from his own chariot by a stampeding elephant. The wooden box hung perilously above him for a second, as if hesitating to fall over him. Then, with a sickening crash, the chariot came down on him, trapping him inside its dark confines.
Karna tried to lift the chariot, pushing with his powerful shoulders. His whole body ached. What was that low rumbling outside? The whinnying of the horses and the trumpeting of elephants filtered through the cracks of his coffin. The Southern Confederate elephants were running amok, his upturned chariot in their path, with him trapped inside like a bauble in a baby’s rattle.
The lid of the cache containing the poisonous weapons flew open and powders began raining on him. A skin-burning itching and throat-choking blackness descended on Karna.
*****
10 AHIMSA
“KRISHNA, WHY DID YOU DO IT?” Balarama knelt beside the lifeless bodies of Dhantavakra and Shalva.
“They were trying to kill us all, you, me, Balarama...”
“No, Krishna, they were not; we had already defeated them. They were on the verge of surrender. They had put down their arms. Balarama had proposed an honourable surrender, but you...” Kritavarma stood glaring at Krishna, puzzlement and contempt fighting their own battle over the lined terrain of his face.
“Kritavarma, they were going to sack our city. They were killed in battle. Does it matter how? Yes, I used my Sudharshana from behind to cut their undeserving throats. An enemy slain is an enemy less. The methods are mere details. My city and people are safe and that is the only thing that counts. Why is there an argument over it? Instead of wasting time, we should be looking for their leader, ah...Ekalavya. Where has he vanished to?”
Balarama stood up wearily and began walking through the battlefield, wet with blood and excreta. The battle was over; the Yadavas had won; but the weight of victory caused his shoulders to stoop. He did not want to stand there and listen to his brother and his Commander argue over the rights and wrongs of the war. All war was wrong. The wailing widows walking from the city gates in procession to search for the bodies of their loved ones was proof enough for him. For a child who had lost his father, what did it matter whether they had won or not? ‘Oh, Rama, what have I done?’ His heart heavy with sorrow, Balarama walked on. As he stopped to look at each body with equal pain, unmindful whether the dead one was Yadava or Naga, the vultures fluttered their wings angrily, waiting for access to the pickings.
Balarama stopped near a Naga who, at death’s door, was trying to say something. Balarama put his ear close to his mouth. “Water,” the feeble voice said. Something inside Balarama’s mind gave way with the simple request of the dying man. He ran about, frantically searching for water. He yelled to some guards to fetch water. Krishna and Kritavarma stopped their argument to stare. Krishna ran towards his brother, trying to mask his concern.
“Krishna, get some water. The poor man is dying. Hurry...”
“Brother, he is beyond help. It was war. Let the man die like a warrior. What has happened to you?” Krishna turned to order a soldier to fetch water for the dying man.
A guard came running with a pot of water and Balarama snatched it from his hands. But when he turned, the Naga had no need of the water. His lifeless eyes stared at Balarama. The pot fell from his hands and broke, water drenching the blood-soaked earth. The leader of the Yadavas stood staring at the little bubbles that lingered on the surface for a few moments before popping. Balarama turned and walked towards the palace, dragging his mace over the ground, trying to shut out the images of the dead and dying. He walked past the wailing widows and did not even pause to acknowledge the bows of his soldiers.
“Where had the Nishada vanished? We should have taken him, dead or alive.”
Balarama paused a moment when he heard his brother chastise the soldiers. He knew where Ekalavya had vanished to but he did not wish to tell Krishna. He had seen Ekalavya running along the fort walls when Krishna was slaying Shalva. For a moment Balarama had considered shooting the Nishada down with an arrow. He knew he could do it, yet he did not. Ekalavya had vanished. He may have jumped into the sea. It was a steep drop from the ramparts and it was doubtful that he had made it alive. If he had survived, he deserved to live. But let his path never cross that of his brother.
Balarama walked on, his head bent low. He felt like a criminal. ‘Why did I kill so many people? Who am I to take the life of another living being?’ Violence and bloodshed, he was sick of it. He did not hear the cheers of the people who thronged the road. Krishna’s chariot stopped near him. Balarama looked at his brother standing in all his divine glory. When he shook his head, Krishna’s chariot moved forward with a jerk. From both sides of the road, people threw garlands and coins. Victory cries rent the air. Balarama remained deaf to the cheering. ‘Rama, Rama, what have I done?’ he mumbled to himself as he walked, his feet crushing the flowers his people were throwing at him.
Krishna’s eyes searched for Ekalavya. Where had the Nishada vanished? He was dangerous. Krishna admired the man who had fought his way up from the bottom of the caste hierarchy and turned himself into a fearsome warrior. But the Nishada was filled with bitterness, and that made him a danger to society. He had to be made to see reason. A man who was so determined could be utilised for the benefit of society, provided he knew his position. He was born a Nishada; instead of trying to be a Kshatriya, why he did not concentrate on making the lives of his fellow Nishadas better? Why he was so bent on beating Arjuna and proving himself the better warrior? What if every Nishada started feeling that way? No, for peace, everyone had to strive to be better within his kuladharma. If he wanted respect, why did he not become a sanyasi? The path of spirituality had no varna, or jati. Valmiki had been a dacoit before he became a hermit and wrote the Ramayana; Vyasa was a fisherman’s son; Viswamitra a Kshatriya; yet they were all respected irrespective of their caste in their purvashrama. But when people aspired for what was not destined for them, they created havoc. Parashurama was an example. The Brahmin had caused so much bloodshed trying to act like a Kshatriya. Aswathama was another danger; he could bring disaster trying to act like a Kshatriya. But Karna’s audacity was the most intolerable. Society was in shambles. If only his brother had captured Ekalavya, he could have made the Nishada see reason. Who knew, with his in
telligence he could have become another great poet who would chronicle the story of Gods and avatars. Where had the man gone?
Unknown to Krishna, Ekalavya was fighting a grim battle for survival just a few yojanas away from the Dwaraka fort. In this, neither his superlative skills with the bow nor his prowess with the sword were of any help. All alone in the roaring, frothing darkness, under a dark and uncaring sky, the waves exploded with mirth as they pounded him senseless.
*****
11 THE CHASE
“BEWARE!” THE YOUNG CAPTAIN SHOUTED.
Aswathama yanked on his horse’s reins, bringing the steed to a plunging halt in the very nick of time. A massive boulder missed him by inches and crashed onto the narrow path behind him with a thud. It then bounced down the cliff’s face and disappeared into the river deep below, felling a few trees on its way. The splash of the boulder hitting the water sounded unusually loud.
When the dust cleared, Aswathama was still trying to steady his panicked horse. One missed step and he knew he would follow the path made by the boulder and splatter like an eggshell a thousand feet below. His heart pounded in his chest. Had the boulder been an accident or was someone following them? He looked around; the place looked desolate and forlorn. Nothing stirred. Far below, the Deodar trees in the valley had turned white with their burden of snow. The eerie silence when the wind stopped howling was frightening. The mountain crouched like a wounded beast. He had undertaken this mission thinking it would be an adventure. He had always longed to see the ivory-tipped peaks of the Himalayas. It had been so inviting and he had jumped at the opportunity. In the distance, he could see the mountain ranges dissolving into the sky. He wanted to rub his hands to get the circulation back but was afraid to let go of the reins. It was freezing cold. The chill pierced his skin and gnawed at his bones. But more than the elements, it was the inaction and boredom that was killing him.
“Where are the bastards hiding?” Aswathama asked, more to himself than of the Captain.
“Sir, I think we have lost our way again.”
Aswathama heard the pain and frustration in the Captain’s voice and his anger returned in a flood. “No, we have not!” He watched the words escape his mouth in white puffs. An argument would have been welcome, but his Captain refused to oblige.
As silence crawled back, Aswathama loosened the reins and the horse sauntered forward. His army of thirty-six men dragged itself behind him along the treacherous mountain path. It had started to snow again.
Boom! A scream followed the crash. Aswathama almost fell from his saddle. They had been hit. In that instant he knew the first boulder had been no coincidence and that more were on their way. The second one hit the rear of the column and carried away two men, along with their horses. Aswathama knew that all his skill as a great archer was futile in this battle. He was not fighting on the vast and dusty plains of India. Gandhara had the reputation of teaching reigning superpowers and invaders hard and unforgettable lessons.
The next boulder crashed down just behind Aswathama, hitting the Captain and his horse. He saw them topple over the cliff and vanish into the depths below. The agonized screams of the man and his beast echoed around them, making the survivors edgy. He could sense the fear of his companions. What was that moving there? Rather, who was it? Aswathama peered up towards the top of the mountain, shading his red-rimmed eyes with his hand. He had seen someone moving. Or was the snow playing its usual games of illusion? As he gazed at the point high above, a silent scream began to rise from his belly. The warrior in him sensed it long before his eyes could see. The enemy had waited until they reached this narrow path – the cliff face towered on one side and the deep abyss plunged into darkness on the other. It was the perfect spot for an ambush.
Aswathama’s right hand inched towards his sword. At that moment, the entire mountain began to reverberate as mounted warriors began descending on them at great speed. “Advance!” he shouted, galloping like a man possessed. He had to get off the narrow path. It was now or never. The mountainside began exploding behind them.
The Brahmin warrior and his daredevil companions rushed across the gravel-strewn goat trail. Boulders rolled down, frightening the horses and threatening to dash them all into the waters far below. Behind them, men with faces masked with the ends of their turbans, chased them towards their deaths.
“Either we will get that bastard today or we will all perish. We owe ourselves warrior’s deaths in the service of Prince Suyodhana and our country,” Aswathama shouted over the din, trying to motivate his companions. He could not be sure they heard him.
But his next action inspired them to follow suit. It was one of reckless courage, yet the very insanity of it made his small band of men delirious. Aswathama let go the reins of his horse and stood up in his saddle, facing the Gandharans, his back to his galloping horse’s head. Balancing perilously, he drew his bow and arrow. His men did the same. His first arrow pierced the throat of the man leading the attack; those of his companions caused many others to fall.
“Shoot only to kill...shoot...shoot!” Aswathama kept screaming as he showered lethal arrows on his foes.
Although they had managed to slow down their pursuers, Aswathama knew they could not continue holding them off. A single missed step by one of the horses or a hit by any of the boulders falling around them would finish everything.
Then Aswathama saw him and almost slipped from his saddle. The cloth covering the face of one of the pursuers fluttered back in the wind. There was no mistaking that face... He had never expected Shakuni to lead from the front. Though it was said he was a great warrior, trained by Bhishma himself, it was difficult to imagine the conniving bastard doing well under fire.
‘One direct hit, is all I need,’ thought Aswathama desperately. His next arrow shaved Shakuni’s neck but the Gandharan did not wince. Those burning eyes did not even flicker when an arrow hit the man riding behind him. He kept staring at Aswathama and the Brahmin shuddered at the hatred emanating from the depths of those eyes.
There was just a couple of hundred feet to go to escape the narrow path. “Hold on! Hold on!” Aswathama urged his men as another boulder rolled by so close that it showered them with powdery ice. Despite the men Aswathama had taken down, Shakuni had dodged the arrows with an ease that bordered on magical, the glint of madness in his blue eyes. Another shot and another miss. The man had nine lives.
Aswathama heard a huge crash behind him and looked back. A huge ice-covered boulder had fallen onto the path, cutting off their retreat.
“Good bye, Brahmin!” Shakuni’s laughter echoed around them.
Trapped! Aswathama felt panic-stricken, but he could not let down the dozen surviving men with him, nor his country or Suyodhana. ‘Father!’ he prayed in silent despair. The smiling face of Karna, who might already be lying dead on some battlefield in the South, flashed before his eyes. ‘Suyodhana, I have earned your friendship, perhaps even more than Karna, for I chose this battle, unlike Karna, whom it was thrust upon,’ muttered Aswathama, trying to rally his thoughts. If he had to die, it should not be in vain. Something had to be done to finish the bastard who had ruined the country.
Time stood still as another arrow struck the Brahmin warrior. He scowled in pain as he removed the two arrows from his shoulder. Blood gushed from the wounds, bright against the pure white snow. What was the lesson his father had taught him about snowy mountains? It was something that had captured his imagination as a child. Aswathama’s hands went to the sealed clay pot that contained powdered sulphur rock. “Gandhakastra!” he bellowed, ignoring the look of horror among his followers. The men immediately pulled out the small clay pots they all carried.
“It won’t be enough to take them out,” a soldier near him whispered.
“Not all of them,” Aswathama agreed, as he pulled the arrow that would carry the small clay pot to its destination, from his quiver. He scanned the mountain for a visible crack in the ice. He found one, unsure whether the small explosion
would trigger what he wanted. “Fire the Gandhakastra,” he shouted as his arrow arched high over the mountain. It was followed by a dozen more from his men.
“No! Are you crazy, you bastard?”
It was good to hear the panic in Shakuni’s voice as his men scrambled back, trying to retreat along the slippery trail. They were men of the mountains and knew what was coming as the mountain rumbled under their feet and the horses panicked. They knew nothing would survive in the path of the avalanche the mad Brahmin had triggered with his explosive arrows.
The mountain of snow started at a glacial pace at first, but soon gathered frightening momentum. The air was rent with the sounds of panicked neighing of horses and the terrified cries of men.
“Har Har Mahadeva!” Aswathama screamed as the mountain vibrated in anger.
His men answered in full throat. They waited for the embrace of Shiva as the mountain came rushing towards them.
*****
12 DIGVIJAYA
KARNA OPENED HIS EYES TO DARKNESS. ‘Have I gone blind?’ he wondered. Pungent powders burnt his throat and he tried to cough out the bitterness. Everything was silent. ‘My life cannot end like this. Oh, Lord Surya, have you forsaken me at my death?’
From a small crack, water came trickling in. Water! From where could it have come? The river was some distance away, as Karna remembered; no water could flow in. He used all his strength to break through the crack. The chariot wobbled. Had it become lighter? Water was seeping in from the ground below. There was the faint sound of rain splattering on water. ‘Surya! The river is flooding.’ The water was making the chariot buoyant but it was also rising fast, threatening to drown him.
Karna put an injured hand to the crack and tried to lift the heavy chariot. It rose a little and then crashed back, splashing water all over him. He could hear the river fighting to push in. With all his might he pushed again and finally the chariot toppled over with a huge splash. River water rushed to embrace him. He kicked hard and came up to the roaring surface of the Narmada, spluttering and coughing. When he climbed to the shore, the devastation caused by the war elephants was a shocking sight. Limbs were strewn everywhere, some mashed to a pulp. Carcasses of horses and men lay rotting, half-eaten by wolves and crows. A few men stood shivering in the drizzle. Who had won the battle?