Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (28 page)

A hot dawn breaks over Kurukshetra on the eighteenth day. The stench of rotting corpses permeates the battlefield.

The war is more or less over. Salya has replaced Karna as the Kaurava commander, but he has no hope of victory now.

Our uncle is merely observing the code of honour. One who sets out for battle must not turn back till the war is won—or he is killed.

Ashwathma does not take to the field. Nor do Arjuna or Drishtadyumna, exhausted after all the revelry.

Sahadeva, who took my place at the head of the army, heads straight for Sakuni as soon as the battle begins.

A little later a messenger brings the good news. Sakuni has fallen to Sahadeva.

I remember the dawn after the dice game, when my sobbing brother had vowed to kill Sakuni for his treachery. He has kept his word.

I decide to stay with Yudhistira. After Karna’s death, my brother has regained his vigour. I do not want him to rush into anything foolish.

It must have been Arjuna’s words about him hiding in the middle ranks that spur Yudhistira to seek Salya out himself.

So far, in the seventeen days of war, Yudhistira has not had a single victory worth noting. Today he seems bent on remedying that.

Nakula had initially engaged Salya. He steps aside when Yudhistira arrives, and my elder brother challenges our uncle to direct combat.

Yudhistira fights valiantly today. I have always admired his skill in chariot warfare, but the seasoned Salya has experience on his side.

Quietly, from a distance, I cut the reins of Salya’s horses. As his charioteer struggles to control the vehicle, I fall back.

My plan works. Salya falls to Yudhistira’s well-placed arrows. My brother finally has a victory that balladeers can sing about.

Our uncle had marshalled a defeated army to make his last stand. I watch with mixed emotions as it crumbles swiftly after his fall.

Across the front, enemy troops ebb like a tired tide. Most turn, flee. Those who stay to fight fall in the final rush of a jubilant army.

After eighteen days, the slaughter finally is over.

Victory wipes the exhaustion off Yudhistira’s face. Back at the camp, he calls for celebrations. He talks of sending for Mother.

‘It is not over,’ I remind him. ‘One still remains.’

We have not seen Duryodhana since Salya’s fall. Driving me to my tent, Visoka says Duryodhana had attempted to garner his fleeing troops.

But no one listened. The last Visoka saw was Duryodhana’s empty chariot standing by the treeline into which his men had eagerly fled.

When Visoka orders the servants to bring me wine, I stop them. I do not feel like celebrating. All I want now is sleep.

I wake up when Arjuna comes searching for me with a goatskin of liquor. Visoka has disappeared somewhere.

Much later, when Visoka returns, it becomes clear he has not been idle. With him are two hunters who had supplied us with fresh meat.

The hunters had spotted three men by a small lake. From their description, it sounds like they saw Ashwathma, Kripa and Kritavarma.

‘They were talking to a fourth person, who was hiding in the shrubs!’ Visoka says, hardly containing his excitement.

Duryodhana. It had to be him!

Arjuna runs out shouting for the chariots to be brought around. By the time he returns, Visoka has harnessed a vehicle for me.

Arjuna drives the large chariot with Krishna, Yudhistira and Satyaki in it. Nakula and Sahadeva climb into mine quickly.

Visoka leads the way in a small vehicle with one of the hunters. He drives along the riverbank for a while before cutting into the trees.

We lose sight of the river as we wind our way through the trees. Turning a sharp bend on the narrow trail, we see the lake.

It stretches before us, the water calm and still. Shrubs grow thick around its banks. Duryodhana is here somewhere—but where?

‘It is difficult to find him here,’ Krishna says in a low voice. ‘We must shame him into revealing himself.’

Yudhistira approaches the bank. ‘Duryodhana, show yourself!’ he calls out. ‘You wanted this war—now fight your last fight!’

There is no answer. Yudhistira tries again. ‘Curse of the Kaurava clan, you wanted our kingdom! Come out, fight for it like a man!’’

I see the shrubs move. Duryodhana’s voice emerges from within.

‘Let me be! What use is the kingdom when all my relatives are dead? I no longer desire it.

‘You rule Hastinapur. I have decided to retire to the forests.’

Yudhistira responds, ‘You caused this war. After all the wrongs you did to us, now you want to save yourself? Where is your valour?’

‘How courageous of the Pandavas to surround a wounded warrior with no weapon and challenge him! Is that your valour, Yudhistira?’

Yudhistira’s face turns crimson. He shouts:

‘It is not for land that we fight. I already have Hastinapur! The outrage you perpetrated on us must be paid for!

‘Pick any of us. Any weapon! If you win, you win the kingdom again!’

I shudder at my brother’s reckless words. What if Duryodhana challenges Nakula or Sahadeva or Arjuna to a mace duel? Or Yudhistira himself?

Krishna turns away, muttering in disgust, ‘What possesses this man? The Pandavas must be destined to live their lives out in the forests!’

The shrubs part. Duryodhana emerges, his body covered in mud and blood. He had lied. He holds his favourite mace in his right hand.

Approaching Yudhistira he says, ‘I accept your challenge.’

My elder brother stands rooted, unable to take back his words. There is hope in Duryodhana’s eyes.

I step forward. ‘Maces, Duryodhana! You have always boasted you are my better. Let us settle that once and for all.’

‘You need to be reborn to defeat me in duel, fat fool!’ Duryodhana’s voice drips contempt.

I laugh at him. ‘Is that why Drona had to intervene during the trial of strength?’

Duryodhana’s eyes dart to Yudhistira. It looks like he is contemplating the way out my elder brother had so foolishly offered.

I press further. ‘The teachers have always protected you from me. If you have the courage, face me on your own!’

I see rage on Duryodhana’s face. He tightens his grip on his mace.

‘Come!’ he says. ‘Let this be your last battle! And after I have crushed your head, your brothers can wander the forests!’

The duel would have started then, but for the arrival of a chariot. Duryodhana’s face lights up as Balarama steps out of the vehicle.

Krishna touches his brother’s feet. ‘Two of your disciples are about to duel,’ he says. ‘You have arrived just in time.’

It is Balarama who suggests moving the duel to the riverbank. Offering to referee the fight, he busies himself laying down an arena.

I do not like how things are turning out. I am Balarama’s disciple only in name. He has always preferred Duryodhana.

In any case, this is war. Not a demonstration. Who referees war? Certainly not someone who had slyly left on pilgrimage to avoid fighting!

With Balarama’s arrival, my enemy seems to have grown stronger. He faces me, holding his gold-stranded mace with both hands.

Duryodhana attacks, switching the mace for a right-handed blow. I bend low at the knee to counter it.

Sparks fly as our maces clash. I sense Duryodhana’s weapon is lighter than mine and make a mental note to expect speedy attacks.

Though light of weight, the blows he rains on me are not easy to parry. The few I fail to block fully thud into my body, making me wince.

I withdraw, circle. Duryodhana is faster than I expected. I wait for him to tire.

Duryodhana swings again, overhead this time, his bodyweight behind it. I block it with difficulty, stumbling back to escape his reach.

Sensing an advantage, Duryodhana roars. My toes dig into the warm sand as I struggle to regain balance.

Duryodhana does not expect my counterattack. My one-handed swing at his torso catches him by surprise.

In our previous encounters, I had relied mainly on my strength, on the power of my arms to tire him out. I fall back to the same strategy.

Duryodhana backs away under the flurry of heavy blows I aim at him. Calculatedly, he evades my swings, allowing my mace to whistle past him.

Above the shouts of my brothers, I hear the rasp of my own breath. I look at Duryodhana. Does he feel the same ache in his arms as I do?

No. I cannot lose this battle. I, who defeated Jarasandha, who fought on when my strength ebbed—I cannot fall to Duryodhana!

As I think of the hundred treacheries my enemy has unleashed on us, the strength of a thousand elephants rushes into my arms.

Duryodhana blocks my blow to his head. But the power I put into it drives his own mace into his forehead, making him stumble.

I press forward, aiming for his exposed right side. My arms jar when the mace connects. I hear his ribs crack.

Lifted off his feet, Duryodhana falls.

I stand over him as he struggles to get up. A thousand memories flood my mind. The dice game. Draupadi. This sneering face of hate.

My mace rises.

Around me, more than one voice shouts, ‘Bhima, no!’ But I do not hear.

As my mace falls, Duryodhana raises his legs in a desperate attempt to block. I let my blow smack into his thigh, just below the waist.

Yudhistira rushes to me. He can hardly speak.

‘What have you done?’ he says. ‘How could you hit him below the waist when he was down? That was unrighteous!’

Balarama points a shaking finger at me. ‘Against the rules! Disgraceful!’

I ignore him. Turning to Yudhistira, I say, ‘After all that you have put us through, I have nothing to say to you about right and wrong.

‘I vowed to kill this man. And I will. If anyone here wants to stop me, they may try!’

Krishna and Satyaki are trying to pacify Balarama. I look at him pointedly, then walk to where Duryodhana lies.

My mace speaks one last time.

Walking towards the river, I throw the weapon away. The mace Mayan made for me has served its purpose.

I head away from the camp, staying close to the meandering Hiranvati. A soft breeze embraces me with warm hands, struggling to soothe me.

I walk on.

Visoka joins me much later. Krishna and my brothers have gone somewhere to celebrate. The rest are asleep at the camp.

He leaves reluctantly when I tell him to. I sit by the river, staring at the placid waters, willing my mind to absorb its calm.

In the distance, I see smoke swirling into the air. It will be days before they finish burning the bodies in the crematorium.

Dawn. Time for me to return. Slowly, I climb the steps of the river.

The small chariot that approaches me at speed across the sand is unexpected. Visoka tumbles out before it comes to a stop.

‘Ashwathma! He set fire to the camp!’ he says, between sobs. ‘Everyone is dead!’

Everyone? I freeze, not having the courage to ask the question trembling on my lips.

‘Only your brothers, Krishna and Satyaki escaped,’ Visoka says, collapsing. ‘They had gone to celebrate. The rest are all dead!’

Drishtadyumna is gone, Visoka tells me. He had begged off from my brothers, saying he wanted to sleep.

Ashwathma had come in the night, after the camp was asleep. He had gone from tent to tent, sword in hand.

Kritavarma and Kripa had stood guard. Kripa, the elder, the revered teacher!

Drishtadyumna, Shikandi, our children: Prativindya, Soothasoma, Shetanikan, Sarvada. All cut to pieces!

Is this what we fought for? I sink on to the sand under the crushing weight of our victory.

THE PALACE OF TEARS

EPISODE 40

TWEETS 87

No one waits at the city gates to welcome us when we return to Hastinapur.

Without fanfare, like the vanquished rather than the victors, we make our way into a palace that stands as empty as our coffers.

Somewhere in here are Aunt Gandhari and the blind man. They do not make an appearance.

Silently, we retreat into our own dark corners, with only thoughts for company.