Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (21 page)

During training, he proved himself an exceptional combatant with all weapons. But what held my attention most were his eyes.

Shikhandi has the eyes of a killer. War is not duty, but joy for him. He would not waver against elders and blood relations.

‘Virata and Drupada are good choices,’ Krishna says. ‘But the enemy troops outnumber us. We need someone who thinks in new ways.

‘Shikhandi fits that role well. But he is a loner, not so much a leader. He will be more effective if he roams free, unfettered by command.

‘The man I have in mind is Drishtadyumna. He is unafraid to experiment. A fine warrior. And he has the respect of the young and the old.’

I had not thought about the Panchala prince as commander because of his youth. But when Krishna mentions his name, it sounds right.

Seeing the expression on our faces, Krishna says, ‘Good. That’s settled then!’

Drishtadyumna looks pleased. He will make an excellent commander-in-chief indeed. Catching my eye, he smiles.

Men and material continue to arrive. The last of our mechanized weapons reach the camp the next day, followed by physicians and masseurs.

The minstrels and musicians who will sing our victories every night are the last to arrive. Our preparations are now complete.

When I return one evening after watching the mahouts fit new headgear on our elephants, someone is waiting in my tent.

The same smile. A few streaks of grey in his beard. Visoka has not changed much.

I am glad to see him. A skilled charioteer is essential in a battle of this nature, and no one anticipates my commands better than Visoka.

Krishna himself is driving Arjuna. That, though, had been masterminded by the Kaurava elders.

When Krishna arrived in Hastinapur with our declaration of war, Dritarashtra asked him not to align himself with us.

The argument was that since he had been involved in peace talks it was not right for Krishna to pick up arms.

The Yadava troops had been pledged to the Kauravas to fulfil Balarama’s promise to Duryodhana.

Balarama himself had gone on a pilgrimage, wanting no part in a war between two sides so dear to him.

But Krishna said he could not do that. It would be dishonourable to desert his friend Arjuna in his hour of need.

Krishna swore he would not take part in the fighting. Instead, he would be Arjuna’s charioteer.

Krishna had smiled when Yudhistira complained he would have preferred for Krishna to fight by Arjuna’s side, rather than pick up reins.

He consoled my elder brother, ‘If you bring together the right elements at the right time, the result can be surprisingly powerful.

‘Arjuna and Krishna as one will be more devastating to the enemy than Arjuna and Krishna individually. You will see.’

With Visoka controlling my chariot, I too believe I will be invincible.

Seeing two soldiers waiting to see me, Visoka says he will wait outside. As he leaves, he says fondly:

‘Five years younger than I, yet you look older than my forty-one years! Let me go enquire what the cooks have for the wolf-belly!’

The soldiers are from the group detailed to protect our water source. I listen to their grievance. Just as they leave, a servant comes in.

‘There is a prince outside, requesting an audience,’ he says.

The strong, dark youth who enters looks familiar. Thick black hair frames his face, falling to his shoulders. Where have I seen him?

He kneels, touching my feet reverently. ‘I am Sarvada, your son, born of Balandhara.’

I draw him to me, this son of mine. I had been true to my kind. I had forgotten about him as we princes are wont to do.

We strike from memory the women we have wed sometime, the sons we have growing up somewhere.

I had seen my son Soothasoma, born of Draupadi, as I was setting out for Kurukshetra. That was the second time I saw him.

When Abhimanyu came to wed Uttaraa, Arjuna had not recognized him either.

As I stand looking at the son I had never seen, I wonder why it never occurred to me to send a messenger to Kashi to enquire about him.

Was it dreams of revenge that had clouded my vision?

Yet here he is. Just a boy. But come to fight his father’s war.

‘Mother is outside,’ Sarvada says, breaking my reverie. ‘She would like to see you.’

For the second time, I am astounded. I had not expected Balandhara here.

She bows low as I rush out to receive her. Holding her shoulders, I usher her into the light inside.

‘I wanted you to meet your son first,’ Balandhara says. Her eyes dart from Sarvada to me. Tears glisten on her smile.

In all the years since our wedding, in all my dreams for the future, I had not thought of Balandhara. Yet here she is, happy just to see me.

Hidimbi. Balandhara. What gives women the strength to love men who return nothing?

‘We of Kashi perform our own sacrificial ceremony before a war,’ Balandhara says. ‘I have brought you offerings from those rites.’

She reaches up to smear ash on my forehead, then hands me more in a fig leaf to apply every day before battle.

I order a servant to escort Sarvada and his troops to where Soothasoma and our other sons are stationed.

Balandhara says she will stay with Mother in one of the lodges across the river. I walk her to her chariot.

‘The gods are with you,’ she says, as I help her into the vehicle. ‘Perhaps after victory, when this is all over…’

As Balandhara falls silent, the charioteer cracks his whip. The night swallows them.

I do not know how long I stand there unmoving. I turn only when I hear Visoka clearing his throat.

‘This is not the night for recriminations,’ he says. ‘Rest. Dawn brings war.’

CHANGE OF CLOTHES

I wake in the dark, for the first time feeling the crushing weight of the responsibility Drishtadyumna has placed on me.

The sun will be up soon. And it will begin.

Drishtadyumna had called a final war council the morning before. Since taking charge of the army, he had worked quietly but efficiently.

He organized our forces into seven divisions. Drupada, Virata, Shikhandi, Satyaki and the Kekaya king Chekitana led five of these.

Drishtadyumna took charge of the sixth. The seventh, he placed under my command.

Arjuna was in charge of deciding the daily battle formations—and accordingly, he would fight on the front that required him the most.

‘We will attack in the crescent formation on the first day,’ Drishtadyumna announced at the final council. ‘Arjuna will explain.’

With his fingertip Arjuna drew the formation in the sand, outlining where each of our forces would be placed.

‘The centre is the most crucial point,’ Arjuna says. ‘When we flank the enemy, the centre will take the brunt of their attack.’

‘Who will hold the centre?’ Yudhistira asks.

‘Bhima, of course,’ Drishtadyumna says. ‘The centre must not collapse. Who else can ensure that?’

The centre must not collapse. If it does, the flanks will be cut off. Men will die.

No, I will not let that happen. Slowly I rise in the dark, make my way outside.

When I return from the river, Visoka hands me the breastplate he has procured for me from Kashi.

Of specially treated cowhide, it fits me like a second skin. Visoka assures me it can withstand spears and arrows except from very close.

I strap on shoulder pads. Then, opening the leaf Balandhara gave me, I apply a pinch of ash to my forehead. May the gods be with me today!

‘Yudhistira has just returned,’ Visoka says, driving me slowly to the palace tent. ‘I saw his chariot passing.’

Returned? I look at Visoka.

He informs me my elder brother had driven up to the Kaurava camp before dawn, unarmed, to seek the blessings of the elders.

Incredible. Only Yudhistira would do such a thing. The war could have ended before it began!

Yudhistira is with Krishna when I alight. Krishna looks unhappy. My brother is smiling.

Yudhistira tells me, ‘It was the right thing to do. Bhishma, Drona, Kripa… They expected me to come. They gave us their blessings!’

Inside, the priests have conducted the pre-dawn rites. As I stand by the fire, I feel a warm breeze on my skin.

Has the God of Wind come to fight by my side? Or is that just my mind? I bow my head to Vaayu, my childhood friend.

Arjuna comes in just then, looking troubled. He closes his eyes in prayer for a long time.

My brothers and the other commanders are waiting outside, their expressions grave. Visoka is ready with my chariot.

Drishtadyumna repeats his previous day’s message as we wait for Arjuna. The enemy would not expect an all-out attack on the first day.

Surprise them. Encircle. Engage.

All of us had picked our personal targets earlier. No one needed to ask who Arjuna would target. Mine, I had picked years ago.

Drishtadyumna’s focus would be Drona. Satyaki would aim for Jayadratha. Abhimanyu, for Karna’s son, Vrishasena. And Shikhandi for Bhishma.

No one had wanted to take on Bhishma. But Shikhandi did not hesitate when the grandsire’s name came up.

‘I will challenge the old man,’ he said nonchalantly.

When Yudhistira turned to him angrily, Shikhandi said, ‘He is the enemy. Everything else is immaterial.’

Now, as we are about to begin the war that has been in the making for thirteen years, Drishtadyumna embraces me, wishing me luck.

‘Forget Duryodhana for today,’ he says. ‘Concentrate on providing us an impenetrable centre.’

Visoka whips the horses. The army has begun to assemble in the crescent formation Arjuna ordered. We drive to my appointed spot.

Flanks of large war chariots are protected by smaller ones, which move in unison with the leader. Visoka has made an adjustment with mine.

Two smaller vehicles move on the left of my six-horsed chariot, but on my right, he has placed a war elephant. A magnificent tusker, Kesava.

Unconventional. But it allows me the flexibility of fighting from a higher plane when required.

As the first rays of the sun penetrate the horizon, we march forward. Shouts ring through the ranks at the sight of the Kaurava forces.

Some distance from the enemy, we await the signal agreed on with Bhishma. Eighteen blares from Krishna’s conch would indicate the start.

As our forces race forward to meet each other, I spot the hooded cobra on Duryodhana’s flag. He is ensconced in the rear, away from harm.

Though layers of Kalinga troops separate us, I cannot resist shooting an eagle-feathered arrow high into the air.

Watching its flight, I smile grimly. I am here, Duryodhana!

As the Kalinga soldiers fated to die at my hands rush forward, Visoka dances the horses expertly to provide me clear shots.

Men groan as arrows breach armour. Soldiers fall on both sides.

When we get too close to the enemy, I let my bow clatter to the deck and jump out. Mace swinging, I plunge into the enemy troops.

The Kalingas are not prepared for me. Some scatter. I beat a bloody path of broken bones and smashed skulls through those who do not.

I find Visoka by my side when my arms begin to tire. Vaulting into the chariot, I pick my bow up and scan for a new target.

Sometime later, amidst the roars of maddened men and the screams of the wounded, I sense that everything is not well with our right flank.

There is incredible pressure from the right. Much more than from the left. Why is the right flank not holding?

Mounting Kesava, I charge into the troops on my right, hoping to ease the pressure.

Visoka has chosen well. Kesava responds to my lead with joyous fury, tossing aside chariots and trampling all that stands in our way.

From the back of the tusker, I see the right prong in tatters. Drupada and his men are in trouble. Satyaki is rushing to their aid.

Where is Arjuna?

Failing to see him at the front, my eyes scan for his chariot in the second line. I find it finally—idle, away in the distance.

Arjuna sits with his head down. Twisting in his seat, Krishna is talking to him.

An arrow bites into my thigh. Roaring, I vent my fury on the archer who dared. Then jumping down, I redirect forces to the right flank.

Time tears by as a chronicle of corpses. Swigging from the waterskin Visoka shoves into my hand, I continue my rampage.

The centre will hold. I had promised Drishtadyumna that.

A blare of trumpets marks the end of combat. It is dusk.

I sink down, exhausted. As Visoka drives back slowly, carts drawn by donkeys are coming to collect the corpses. How many died today?

I proceed to Yudhistira’s tent. Krishna, Shikandi, Satyaki, Drupada and Chekitana are present. Arjuna sits by himself in a corner.

‘Uttara is dead,’ Yudhistira says. He adds to console himself, ‘He died valiantly.’

Death is the daily business of battle. Yet when it befalls one of your own, it never fails to shock.