The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 (26 page)

Dhrstyadymn had ridden straight home to Kampilya, eager to rouse Panchala’s massive armies and lead them in an attack against Hastina. But his father, Dhrupad, had been ready to make an agreement with Bhisma, Grandsire of the Kurus. Panchala would swear allegiance to Syoddhan. Panchala would not go to war. And Panchala would continue to pay Syoddhan’s empire the tribute it had paid Dharma’s. In return, Dhrupad would finally get the one thing that had been denied him all these years: His son, the heir to the Panchala throne, would train under Acharya Dron.

Dhrstyadymn had found the conciliation unacceptable for more reasons than he could count, the fact that they had been compelled to forsake Panchali not the least among them.

It was Shikandin who had pacified him. ‘Do you know why our father asks that you be trained by Dron? Because, like every other ruler in Aryavarta, he is now going to build his armies and his forges, both. Like every other monarch, he will be driven by ambition and the need to survive, to be stronger and mightier than his neighbour. To avoid war, we will all have to begin to prepare for it, every day and every moment. And for the same reasons that men like our father once gave when they hunted down each and every Firewright during the Great Scourge, we will now squabble and conspire to get our hands on every piece of Firewright weaponry that may, somehow, have been left behind. We were fools, all of us…’ Reluctantly, he added, ‘Perhaps Govinda too.’

The admission had mollified Dhrstyadymn a little, but not completely, given his concealed misgivings about his brother. ‘What about Panchali?’

‘Trust me, the best way to keep her safe is to do what is required of us. Syoddhan has no reason to bother with her or that spineless bastard Dharma unless
we
give him cause to. Panchala’s assurance of loyalty is essential, not only for our kingdom’s safety but also Panchali’s. That’s why I…’

‘You counselled this? You agreed to this shameful, despicable peace?’

‘Yes. Not directly, though… You know our father would rather stab himself in the eye than ever listen to my suggestions. I had his advisors put it forward in a way that he would find palatable.’

Words had failed Dhrstyadymn. He could only ask, defeated, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Go to Hastina. Train. Train hard. Rudra knows what lies ahead.’

‘And you?’

Shikandin had smiled. ‘Some of us have been fighting this battle while you were too busy being born. I’ll look forward to reliving those good old days.’

And now it had been more than a decade since Dhrstyadymn had seen his brother or his sister – the two people he loved the most in all existence. In his first few years as Dron’s student, he had spent all his time at acharya Dron’s training hermitage on the outskirts of Hastina, living as one of the disciples, going through the routine of menial chores and lessons. All that had changed the day a messenger had come from his father, requesting him to return at once to Kampilya. He had rushed home to a quiet and brooding palace. An air of melancholy hung in the air – but not quite.

‘Shikandin’s dead,’ Dhrupad had informed him, not appearing any the sadder for it. Satrajit – commander of Panchala’s armies and Dhrupad’s son by a concubine – had later explained that nobody had heard from Shikandin in a little over two years, and that had led Dhrupad to decide that his inconvenient son was dead. There had been no mourning, no state funeral, no loud wailing or sacred rites to mark the elder prince’s passing. It had been as though Shikandin had simply ceased to exist. The queen – Dhrstyadymn’s mother and Shikandin’s birth mother – had refused to see her son or speak to him.

Hurt and shaken, more by what he suspected was Shikandin’s continuing treachery than Dhrupad’s lack of emotion, Dhrstyadymn had, for the first and last time that he could recall, refused to obey his father’s wishes. He insisted that he would not ascend the throne just as yet. He did, however, take on greater administrative and ceremonial duties, as Dhrupad ordered. In his heart, he remained a shattered man, torn between his life as Dron’s student, his belief that Shikandin was alive and his constant worry for Panchali. The thread that tied it all together was a complicated one that he dared not unravel as yet, but every night, before he slept, he thought of Govinda Shauri, his failure and his betrayal.

Dhrstyadymn tried his best to understand it, but he could not. And so he would wake to yet another day of learning every martial method, every strategy and move that Dron had to offer. He did not know whether Govinda was friend or foe, but if ever they met in battle, he wanted to have what it would take to kill him if he had to. It was why he continued to come back to the hermitage whenever he could, year after year, to learn more than any student of Dron’s ever had. It was, he also knew, why Syoddhan encouraged and welcomed him, and made sure that acharya Dron did the same.

To be fair, Dhrstyadymn had found that Dron was a true teacher, a man who shared what he knew with little distinction between enemy and friend. A student was a student, and remained as such till he defeated Dron himself in a sparring contest. Of course, the students all knew that none of them was Dron’s match on a battlefield. But here, on the training ground, the acharya occasionally let a student win. It meant that he had deemed the student ready. And Dhrstyadymn was far from ready.

During his training sessions with Dron he received more blows and cuts than any of the other students, grown men like him, who sought to learn the most advanced fighting skills or even dedicate their life to fighting as an art more than an activity. Dron now also took in princes from countries that were much further away, including Gandhara and beyond, where the people had fair hair and blue eyes. Dhrstyadymn had once casually wondered what the women of those countries looked like, but soon had little time for such leisurely thoughts. Every day, the acharya urged him on, cheered him, taunted him and admonished him to do better, but every time they duelled, Dhrstyadymn remained defeated and went home to a disparaging father who was only too happy to remind him of the heavy burden he carried. He regretted that he would hear it all soon enough, for Dron had instructed him yet again to return to Kampilya.

Rising from his mat, Dhrstyadymn walked out of the dormitory he shared with nine other students. Standing in the middle of the courtyard, he let himself be drenched by the torrential downpour. Every raindrop that touched him stung and cooled him, stoking and extinguishing the fury and self-hatred that seethed within. Arms outstretched, eyes closed, head turned upwards in eager welcome, he gratefully received the rain, willing it to wash away his doubts and dismay. Under the cover of the storm and darkness, he let his tears fall, mingling with the downpour.

He cried for his brother, who stood in the shadows of doorways in the very palace he ought to have ruled, a stranger peering inside his own home from the uncertainty of the threshold, humiliated by his father and hated by his son. Was that why his brother had turned into a traitor? He cried for his sister, and the strange bond between them – for neither he nor she knew of their origins or the life that may have once been theirs. Foundlings both, they had slowly grown to become Dhrupad’s children. At that thought, Dhrstyadymn finally cried for himself, for the life he had lost and the destiny he had never been able to find. He felt, at best, like a ghost – always present but incorporeal, there but of no consequence. Through all that had happened, he had been nothing more than an angry witness who neither protected nor avenged.

Dhrstyadymn stood that way till the rain stopped. Only when the weight of his being returned, dragging at him like wet robes, did he move and open his eyes. He started, uncomfortable, as he noticed the tall figure watching him from the sheltered awning of a hut. No doubt, Asvattama had been standing there for a good while. Dhrstyadymn peered through the night, trying to read the man’s expression, but his face was completely hidden by shadows. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, and all Dhrstyadymn could see was that the skin of his long, slender fingers was ghostly pale in the moonlight.

Unsure of what to do next, Dhrstyadymn settled for a polite bow: Asvattama was as much a teacher here as Dron and deserved respect as such. In response, Asvattama crooked a finger and beckoned him to approach. As Dhrstyadymn walked towards the hut, Asvattama lit a small lamp and set it in a stone alcove. Laying out two reed mats, he sat down comfortably on one and gestured to the other. Dhrstyadymn complied, bearing the other man’s silent scrutiny with patience.

Finally, Asvattama said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet, but you have a gift, a rare gift. Your mind…the way you think… You can look beyond the battle, you can see the whole battlefield. Men like that are rare, and those that possess this ability make the greatest commanders. But…’

‘But?’

‘Your anger is your strength. Right now it controls you. You will have to learn to control it.’

Dhrstyadymn looked at Asvattama like he did not quite care. He said as much. ‘Your father has instructed me to go back. He said he would send word when he is ready to teach again. I have a feeling it won’t be very soon.’

‘And you’ll wait? You didn’t strike me as a man who could hold his curiosity and vengeance for years. Whatever happened to the angry young prince you once were? Or are you turning your rage into motivation? That’s not a bad idea, really, but it could do with some improvement.’

True to the first allegation, Dhrstyadymn stood up at once. ‘I don’t have to tell you anything!’

‘Sit down, Dhrstyadymn,’ Asvattama commanded. ‘Till such time as you leave this place I am still your teacher and you will do as I instruct!’

His eyes blazed defiance, but Dhrstyadymn did as he was told. Asvattama reached out, letting a drop of rainwater fall off the leafy thatch and on to his palm. Displaying the drop to Dhrstyadymn, he asked, ‘Tell me, what is this?’

‘Really?’

‘If you don’t want to indulge me, then obey me.’

‘A raindrop.’

‘It looks like any old drop of water to me. Where is the rain?’

‘Mih! What the…’ Dhrstyadymn began to argue, but stopped short as he understood what the acharya was saying.

‘Yes, you’re beginning to see. Warriors are like raindrops. Our meaning goes beyond one command, one act and one victory We fight
for
something, Dhrstyadymn, for a belief, a principle that we stand for. When you do that, it does not matter who is killed or who kills.’ Asvattama twisted his palm lightly, letting the raindrop roll playfully over his palm. He said, ‘When this drop fell, it simply fell. It did not stop to consider where it fell from or where it would land. Its true nature is falling and so it fell. Its true nature is not being a drop, it is being rain. And that, young man, is also why you find the rain so captivating – because you have much to learn from it. Far more than my father or I could teach you. If you ask me, you’re done here. Anything more you need to know lies within you.’

‘Acharya…’

Asvattama stood up, forcing Dhrstyadymn to scramble to his feet out of courtesy. ‘You may not like me, Dhrstyadymn. But you know what I’m saying makes perfect sense. It makes sense because you and I have an important thing in common. It is strange in itself, but persuasive enough to bind us. Both of us sit on thrones that rightfully belong to your brother. Both of us watched, helpless and angry, as his crowns were taken from him and placed on our respective heads… I can’t forgive myself for letting it happen, and I know that you can’t either. But it is up to us whether we will let it haunt us forever, or choose to use the chance, the power that has been given to us, to do what is good and just. Shikandin made his sacrifices willingly. It is up to us whether we will honour them or not.’

‘But… I… He… How do you know all this?’

‘We are old friends. As for how that happened, this is not the occasion for such tales. Someday, we shall sit together, the three of us, and you shall hear two old men talk of their youth. But now is not the time. I suggest we get what sleep we still can. Oh, and for what it’s worth, in my authority as a teacher I declare your training at this hermitage over. I don’t suppose you mind missing the ceremonial sword-giving ritual and all that? The children find it exciting, but I’m hoping you won’t insist on it.’

Dhrstyadymn smiled. It felt new, as if he were doing it after an immeasurably long time. ‘I don’t mind at all, Acharya. But you will still bless me, won’t you?’

‘If I do, you will owe me guru-dakshina – the payment due to me as teacher. Are you sure you can afford it?’

‘Anything you say, Acharya,’ Dhrstyadymn was sincere, as he bowed low.

Asvattama placed a warm hand on his head and spoke a blessing over him. He said, ‘In that case, here is what I claim of you in my right as your teacher. Trust your brother, Dhrstyadymn. Shikandin is one of the strongest men I know, but even the strength of the greatest man can fail if he loses hope. Your brother needs you; he needs you to believe that he is not a traitor to his people.’

‘Shikandin is alive?’

‘Don’t you know in your heart that he is?’ Asvattama sneered, far more like his usual self than the warm teacher of moments ago. ‘He’s alive. I don’t agree with what he is doing, but I don’t want him or his friends to die for it. Head east, you’ll find him soon enough. Move fast. He has trouble headed his way, though he doesn’t know it…yet.’

Dhrstyadymn nodded. ‘Thank you, Acharya.’

Asvattama waved his hand, dismissive, and turned his attention to the skies as though his exchange with Dhrstyadymn had been nothing more than an intrusion. This time Dhrstyadymn knew better than to take it to heart.

4

THE HEAT FROM THE FORGE WAS OVERPOWERING, BUT VASUSENA
appeared not to care. He was dressed in a simple cotton lower robe, a far cry from the royal vestments he wore as a matter of entitlement. Yet, as his wife was fond of telling him, he looked powerful and regal in such simplicity. He often snapped at her when she said so – not because he disagreed with her but because he agreed. Given a choice, Vasusena would have gladly remained the simple son of a charioteer in the Kuru army and his loving wife. Such a life would have been devoid of the best joys he had ever known, though being king was not one of them. He was, however, grateful for many other things: his fame and honour as a warrior, his doting wife, a princess of the Kashi kingdom he had married for love and not politics, and his friendship with Syoddhan of the Kurus. The last to him was the most precious treasure of them all.