The Thirteenth Day (11 page)

T
he boy had balls. Great, big ones.

He was Arjuna without the thin moustache and grey lines in his hair. He wore golden armour and a red dhoti bordered with gold, an obvious attempt to be noticed on the battlefield.

I was interested to see how he would take on Shalya and was pleased with what I saw—a perfect throw, square into the unfortunate charioteer. The impact rattled the chariot, nearly throwing Shalya off. As soon as he was able to stop the shaking vehicle, he picked up a large iron mace and went hunting for the boy.

Abhimanyu didn’t seem overly impressed and was ready to take him on with a broken short sword when Bhima made an entry.

My chariots had punched through the Pandava formation. They had virtually no elephants to face us with and only a handful of chariots. But their foot soldiers fought with every possible weapon they could get their hands on and every inch on dust was hard-earned. I had never seen this degree of intensity on a battlefield. It was almost as if the last ten days had made the conflict personal to each one of them. No life was given easily, nor taken. We butchered our way slowly to the middle, stopping at places just to remove the heaps of carcasses that blocked our path. In some places, the troops spoke of walking through ankle-deep blood with carcasses floating past them like lotuses in a pond.

When we finally reached what we believed to be the centre, I saw Abhimanyu showing Shalya his skill with the javelin. Shalya came after him with a mace when he was interrupted by a bellowing Bhima. There stood the great oaf, ruining a good fight. Bhima had a word with Abhimanyu and sent the boy back into their lines. He cracked his fingers and brought out a leather sack from his chariot and removed a thick iron mace from it. It was a beauty, with gold and hemp interweaves and an iron head as broad as a bull’s skull.

On the face of it, they weren’t evenly matched. Bhima loomed over Shalya like an oak and was twice as wide. But Shalya had a wiry strength about him and a reputation for being the best mace fighter in the north.

And Bhima was not going to let some glory-happy brat spoil his chance to test it.

They began circling each other warily. Neither of them wanted to give any indication of their styles. Bhima prodded his mace into Shalya’s face and it was brutally struck down. Bhima appeared surprised by the power that went into the blow, and circled a little more cautiously. Shalya swung viciously but found his arc uninterrupted by Bhima’s bulk. Now it was his turn to be surprised. Bhima’s technique, I knew for a fact, relied more on speed than his strength. His mass was simply a decoy for his quickness.

They continued circling, looking for an opening in the steady anticipation that only veterans possess. After some moments, Shalya struck. It was another downward swing, but this time the mace went down faster. Bhima stopped the blow and pushed back, then using his weapon like a battering ram, hit Shalya full in the chest. Shalya fell down but rolled back on his feet without wasting time. He went after Bhima with a series of attacks, striking him repeatedly on the arms and shoulders. Dazed from Shalya’s onslaught, Bhima retreated. Shalya came whirling in again, finishing with a devastating upper cut, which was sidestepped. The momentum behind the stroke made Shalya lose his balance and Bhima struck his adversary’s shoulder with all the strength he possessed. Shalya spun and fell on his face. He spent a few moments on the ground, trying to catch his wind, and got up slowly. Bhima let him take his time.

This was no longer war. It was something more sacred, a personal test. Shalya tottered up to his feet. Bhima was waiting. The pace of the contest slowed. They took fewer shots now, waiting for the other to make a mistake. This continued for some time till both were drained of all energy.

Then Bhima planted his feet firmly on the ground and swung at Shalya, pounding his chest with a blow that could have lifted a full-grown buffalo off its feet. Shalya didn’t flinch. He stood on the spot and returned the blow to Bhima’s shoulder. They stood in their places and continued hammering away, one after the other.

Finally, Shalya fell.

Bhima dropped to a single knee, sobbing with relief.

M
idday saw silhouettes of crows and vultures circling leisurely overhead against the stark canvas of the sky.

Shalya lay still on the ground and all of us held our breaths.

Bhima stood up, leaning heavily on his mace. He tore off his helmet and roared.

Two men lifted Shalya by his arms and he twitched violently as they carried him back to his chariot. So the old king was alive. For how long, remained the question. The chariot made its way back into the Kaurava lines. As soon as it was out of sight, Radheya’s Anga chariot archers fired straight into us and charged, supported by their infantry.

Our men in front were killed almost instantly and the men behind them wavered. Dhristadyumna sent a squadron of chariots to the front line to bolster them. I kept an eye out for Bhima. I had last seen him hobble into his chariot, an arrow clinging stubbornly to his leg.

A great clamour went up on the far right. The Anga chariots had opened their ranks. And before we knew it, our front was being run over by horsemen. I went up to Dhristadyumna, who was talking to Shikhandi, who had come in with the reserves.

‘Shakuni, I’m certain. Kambojas…hawk feathers on the spear shaft, see. ’

‘I’m on it.’

Dhristadyumna saw me and snapped, ‘You go back.’

His anger stung me. I didn’t say anything but moved my chariot rapidly in the direction of the fight. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dhristadyumna throw up his arms and turn back to the fight.

Did he really think I needed to be protected? That little strip of a general. I had seen my share of battles and didn’t need his expert opinion on my safety. Just because I didn’t like killing, didn’t mean I couldn’t fight.

I was thirteen the day we began our weapons’ training at Hastinapura. Innocent of skill and the patience required to master it. Until then, we had practised basic drills with wooden weapons. From that day, it would be different.

We were taken to the training pit before sunrise. The pit was surrounded by long wooden galleries that contained metal shields, swords and maces that were old and battleworn. I remember Nakula, Sahadeva and me along with the Kuru boys looking at these weapons with practised apathy. Inside, we were shaking with excitement. The preferred subject of fantasy every night for years was finally in front of us.

Barely out of infancy, Arjuna and Bhima had been discovered as prodigies with the bow and mace. From then on, they attended special private classes with Guru Drona himself and we never saw them except for a day or two in a month. For less gifted warriors like me or my brothers standing in a row beside me, this was our first glimpse of a world we had only heard about in the occasional excited ramblings of our two more fortunate ones.

The training pit is a cruel place for the egos of young boys, and it soon became evident that I was useless with the bow or sword. My skills with the axe or mace were marred by my inability to lift them beyond a few inches off the ground. The visions of glory fled from my mind overnight. I began to hate early mornings and found solace in books and the company of scholars.

After a particularly intensive session with swords where I had been defeated roundly by a boy much smaller than me, I flung down my blade. The entire pit fell silent. To disrespect weaponry was sacrilege here, where we offered prayers to our weapons before and after training. The instructor came up to me without any anger on his face and punched me hard on the jaw. It was afternoon when I woke up. The sword lay next to me on the ground. Training was over. But I had been left behind at the pit. Slowly I came to my feet and patted the dust off my clothes and made to walk back to the barracks.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard a deep voice call out my name.

It was Guru Drona. I lowered my eyes and bowed my head as he approached. ‘I heard you didn’t treat your weapons kindly today, putra,’ he said softly.

I didn’t know what to say so I kept my head lowered, and prepared for another blow.

‘It wasn’t the right thing to do. But I think you already know that.’

I looked at him, seeking sarcasm in his eyes, finding none.

‘Putra, being a warrior does not come naturally to everyone. You have to find what comes to you.’

But I am born a Kshatriya…to fight,’ I pleaded.

‘We’re all born to do certain things, but not necessarily the right circumstances in which to do them. In life, we have to fulfil both—the expectations we have been born into and those we have made for ourselves.’

I didn’t quite understand him and it must have shown. His beard stretched into a smile.

‘Become a warrior. But don’t let it become you.’

I remembered those words as my chariot rumbled towards the Kambojas. They were pulverizing our ragged front, pushing into our lines with their enormous steeds.

I lifted a stabbing spear and balanced it between my thumb and forefinger. I didn’t have the necessary rage to handle a mace or the serene calm to handle a bow, but I was equipped with enough nervousness to poke at anything approaching me with intent.

My chariot went to the front of the line and our infantry began rallying around me. A lancer charged at me and I went on my knee to the chariot floor and stuck out my spear, jabbing unsuccessfully at him as he passed. Two riders charged at me from either side. One hacked at my chariot umbrella as he went, nearly dislodging the battle standard, and the other struck a glancing blow at the side of my chariot and sped away. I set my spear aside and picked up a javelin which I threw with all my strength at an oncoming horseman. It went through his chest and felled him from his horse. A few horsemen came up at a canter, but a wall of infantry gathered around me and beat them off.

Behind us, Shikhandi had gathered the chariot warriors of the reserves. With mechanical precision, they took out their quivers and began peeling off arrows from behind us into the Kamboja horsemen.

Abhimanyu was here despite Dhristadyumna’s instructions. And he was doing magnificently. He didn’t even need to stop to look where he was firing, but still managed to find a victim for most of his arrows. Shikhandi was more deliberate. Marking her targets carefully, stalking them till she felt confident of a kill. Bhima was back on his feet and stringing a bow impatiently. We moved ahead, recovering ground slowly, pushing back the Kamboja horsemen.

Some moments later a trumpet was heard. A row of infantry with leopard skins draped around their armour marched in to take the place of the remaining horsemen. Shikhandi looked at me and raised her eyebrows. The new leopard-skinned arrivals were Suyodhana’s personal guard. But to the best of our knowledge he was nowhere near this part of the field.

We were right.

Four chestnut-coloured mares drawing a white chariot with a battle standard that bore the emblem of a sacrificial fire came into view. Clad in a simple white armour with no embellishments, and holding a large, white war bow was Guru Drona. The leopard skins took a step in front together and swung their large double-handed battleaxes in a perfectly synchronized upward thrust. Then another step, and once again, a thrust. Our infantry stepped back, unable to counter the savageness of their assault. Drona and a row of chariots came up slowly behind the Leopard Warriors. Dhristadyumna was already behind me telling me to get away, but it was too late. Guru Drona saw me and charged his chariot into our lines, crushing some of his own soldiers in the process.

I took up a javelin and threw it at my Guru and followed it with another. Both went horribly off mark. I readied my stabbing spear and planted my knee on the chariot in the approved stance for meeting a charging foe, when another chariot went hurtling past me bearing a Panchala standard. It was Kumara.

The fool.

I shouted at him to turn back, but he didn’t even look at me. Instead he drew an arrow and fired. The next thing I saw was my guru with an arrow plunged into his chest. Kumara fired another arrow which nicked Guruji’s arm and then, growing in confidence, assaulted him with a barrage of three arrows in quick succession. Where was this skill coming from? And why hadn’t anyone seen it before? Guruji reeled in his chariot and nearly fell off. His charioteer made to retreat. Our boys let out a big cheer and Kumara was distracted for a few moments.