The Thirteenth Day (2 page)

‘The “brothers” you speak of want me dead.’

A long silence greeted this remark. Bhishma’s face sagged into deep thought and emerged after a little while with a wry smile.

‘You know, Radheya, I’ve always kept an eye on you from that day, many summers ago, when you set foot in the archer’s tournament. Not so much for your benefit, but my own.’

‘Sire?’

‘I’m proud of you, boy. I’ve seen you grow from a charioteer to king. And with none of the support the other children had. It’s done me good to see Kunti’s eldest triumph over all the misfortune life has thrown at him, to know that our stock is still capable of producing prodigies who can conquer the world with nothing serving them but the blood and blessings of their ancestors. But be realistic, putra. There is no chance of us winning now. The Pandava chariots are cutting up our forces like…’

‘Like a scythe in harvest? I know, Grandsire, I’ve heard the slop coming from amateur poets in Indraprastha from my agents too. That’s why I’m here. To make sure it doesn’t happen…anymore.’

‘By doing what? Adding to the tally of those lying in the mud at Kurukshetra? Listen to me, boy, spare everyone the bloodshed. Join the Pandavas, your real brothers, with your troops. They’ll be more than happy to have you by their side. Then parley with Suyodhana and talk some sense into him. With a substantially weakened army, shorn of his best generals, dead as most of them are anyway, he will relent.’

He took a deep breath and continued, ‘The Pandavas and Kauravas are fighting for a kingdom that isn’t even theirs. You’re the eldest son of the Kuru clan. The kingdom is your birthright. Take it and end this nonsense war.’

Millions of little campfires lit the killing grounds of Kurukshetra, forming a crude reflection of the stars in the night sky. Radheya took in this panorama and let the idea of becoming king sink in.

The war had really begun two generations ago when Pandu, the king of the Kurus had died leaving his brother, the blind Dhritrashtra the ruler of the kingdom. As Dhritrashtra grew older, the issue of succession became a matter of concern. Pandu had five sons, the Pandavas—Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva. Dhritrashtra, however, had many more. Yudhishthira, as the eldest son of Pandu, had a strong claim to the throne. But Dhritrashtra’s eldest son Suyodhana had a claim that could be taken no less seriously. The Kurus divided into two factions. The sons of Pandu called themselves the Pandavas to underline their claim to the throne as the sons of the original king of the Kurus; and Dhritrashtra’s sons under Suyodhana called themselves the Kauravas to emphasize their status as sons of the Kuru dynasty and its proud lineage.

Over many bitter years, the brothers clashed. The kingdom was even sundered into two to preserve the peace. The western part of the Kuru lands, known as Kuru Jangala, was to be ruled by the Pandavas with the capital at Indraprastha; while the eastern part belonged to the Kauravas with their capital at Hastinapura. Matters regarding the Kuru nation as a whole would be presided over by a council of elders. It was a tenuous agreement at best, but one that Bhishma had hoped would keep the peace for a few years. However, the arrangement failed, and Yudhishthira lost his entire kingdom to Suyodhana in a game of dice and got the Pandavas sent into exile. After thirteen years, they had returned for their kingdom. The senior members of the Kuru council of elders including Bhishma and Drona rejected their claim. Suyodhana had ruled the empire for thirteen years, and to take the Kuru Jangala kingdom away from him now would ruin the stability that all of them in the council had fought hard to create. Left with nothing, the Pandavas declared war.

Bhishma continued, ‘Once he learns the truth, Yudhishthira won’t deny you your birthright. He plays by the book.’

‘And Suyodhana?’

‘At this stage, putra, even he has a feeling that he’s about to lose the war. Take it from me, Suyodhana will just be happy that Yudhishthira won’t get to become king. He may whine and grumble about it for a while, but even he will not be able to deny you your right. And he will not protest much especially since this arrangement would keep both his honour and kingdom intact. It will just add to his bloated sense of self-worth that he delivered the Kuru kingdom to its rightful heir. Carve up the kingdom fairly, with the lands in the east in the hands of the Pandavas, and the lands in the west with Suyodhana. Install yourself as their sovereign. And you will have saved the entire Kuru clan.’

The Lord of Anga cast his eyes towards the ground. Bhishma continued in a softer voice, sensing his reluctance, ‘I know what I’m asking of you, son. But this war will not end well for your friend. The thought of betraying him weighs your decision, but end this war in the next two days and he will live to rule his kingdom yet again.’

‘You make it sound so easy. Let’s pretend for a moment that I go along with this plan. You actually picture me wandering over to Yudhishthira’s tent saying, “Hey, by the way little brother, I’m on your side now”, then face Suyodhana on the battlefield, convince him not to tear my traitorous head off and get everyone together for a jolly family reunion.’

Bhishma glowered at Radheya and for a moment, the great Lord of Anga, conqueror of the Kamboja barbarians, the Kirata mountain fighters, the ferocious Kalingas and Andhras of the south, the Paundras, Utpalas, Vahlikas, Mekalas and many more, wished he had never been born in this infernally complicated family.

‘Do not mock me, insolent fool. This is the only way I see the war having a favourable outcome for all parties concerned. No honour lost. No reputations besmirched. And most importantly, no more lives taken.’

‘Then explain how I go across and talk to Yudhishthira? The sentries of the Pandava camp would cut me to petals if I tried going there at night. And you can’t expect me to break out and approach them openly on the battlefield. They’ll think it’s a trap and kill me anyway. Sending a message to their mother… I mean…our mother, and asking her to speak on my behalf would look like I’m playing some dirty trick.’

Bhishma relaxed and felt the pain glow inside him like hot embers. It was all going according to plan.

‘You’re correct. As I see it, putra, there is only one way. Capture Yudhishthira in battle. Bring him back to camp. Then speak to him from a position of power. Tell him the whole story of your birth, claim the throne and send him straight back to his army with all his weapons as a gesture of faith. He will confirm the details with Kunti and welcome you with open arms. It’s that simple. The day after that, defect before the battle begins, in full view of both armies. Ask Yudhishthira to parley with Suyodhana on the battlefield.’

Bhishma drew a breath and grimaced, but continued:

‘Suyodhana will relent. Especially when he finds himself short of the Anga troops and the only general he can rely on to win this war for him. Also, don’t worry about convincing our boys. I had already drawn up another plan with Suyodhana and Shakuni a few days earlier to capture Yudhishthira on the field. You’ll hear about it in the council tonight with some luck. Put your weight behind it, and God willing, you will be king.’

Radheya nodded in agreement and sat down heavily next to Bhishma. ‘I…I’ll think about it, Grandsire.’

Bhishma’s voice took on a soft, paternal tone.

‘Call me Grandfather, putra. At least now, act like a Kuru prince.’

Bhishma extended his arm towards Radheya, beckoning him to take it, and all the wisdom it represented. Radheya squeezed his grandfather’s hand. A little harder perhaps than he had intended to, with the desperate relief of a lost child reclaimed.

B
hima would have said the palms of my hands were criss-crossed with leaves of pink. The picturesque aftermath of a day spent holding the grooved handle of a sword too tightly. But that, I suppose, is the raw extent to which his rough-hewn poetics could have described my state of being when Grandsire fell.

I was there when it happened. Not slaughtering Kauravas by the cartload like my dear brothers, but engaging them in less emphatic numbers nonetheless. A fair distance away, not close enough to be in the thick of that particular fight, but near enough to see Arjuna’s arrows penetrate him. It’s a memory I’ll carry to my pyre.

I see Shikhandi wedging her chariot in between Arjuna’s and Grandsire’s chariots. She mounts her first arrow onto the bow with deliberate slowness, provoking Grandsire to give her fight. Fighting her does not agree with Grandsire’s personal code of conduct, his dharma. A true Kshatriya, he cannot raise his weapon to attack a woman, and he scrupulously tries to avoid the encounter. Grandsire turns. Shikhandi fires, taking off a chunk from Grandsire’s shoulder plate. She isn’t to be denied on this day. She fires two arrows quickly, but both fly wide. Then, from behind Shikhandi’s chariot, Arjuna starts his barrage. In the time it takes Shikhandi to mount one arrow and fire it, Arjuna dispatches three with unerring accuracy.

He is a short man with a thin moustache lining his lip, and eyes too old for his face. He wears a spotless white armour and dhoti and looks completely unexceptional. Until he lifts a bow.

To watch Arjuna at war is like watching an artist at work. His face is a maze of lines as he picks up and strings his bow. His eyebrows contort as he yanks the bowstring and then ties it with a tenderness that almost seems comical in contrast to the raging tempest mired on his visage. He inspects the bow and makes minor adjustments that I cannot fathom. He mounts an arrow and the expression changes. The lines are buried under his skin now. The eyes are clear; his vision almost ethereal as he looks straight into the horizon and not directly at any one target. He picks up his first arrow, draws the bowstring to the absolute tip of his ear and then you can see it become apparent in his eyes—a frightening serenity, an awareness of everything around him from the neighing of a horse to the displacement of sand by a nearby foot soldier’s boot. The bolt shoots out of Gandiva visible only as a blur, and his hand has already plucked the next arrow from his ready quiver. Arjuna’s unique arrangement of quivers on his chariot floor allows him to pick up arrows with ease. His bow looses bolt after bolt with unfailing, undiminishing rapidity. Like a pumping heart? Like a woodpecker? Like a machine? Like nothing anyone will ever see on this earth. The bowstring buzzes. It wails. It mourns the death of its victim, hapless to stop his fingers from taking advantage of it thus.

Perhaps I exaggerate a little.

No more than the bards at Indraprastha.

Today, the normally becalming spectacle of his destruction horrifies me.

I see the arrows hitting Grandsire, breaking his bow and shattering his quiver almost in the same instant. Grandsire’s quiver falls from his chariot. I look at Arjuna and swallow my urge to yell at him to stop, to put his bow down, and not hurt our grandfather. I grip my sword tightly so that my nails bite into the grooves of the hilt. I see Grandsire getting hit with arrows, a red spatter of carnage yawning slowly across his armour.

He doesn’t raise his hands even once in defeat. He calmly bends down and picks up a sword lying on the floor of his chariot even as the arrows drill into his frame. He gets off the chariot, getting hit all the time, and walks slowly with the intent of taking on Arjuna with his sword. With a lesser warrior, such an effort would have seemed pathetic. With Grandsire, it was magnificent. The arrows break his sword and his only chance at self-defence. An arrow dislodges Grandsire’s helmet, gashing his skull. And from then on, arrows just etch themselves on his body. Grandsire doesn’t struggle. He just stretches his arms out accepting them as an inevitability of fate. Almost telepathically, Arjuna complies. There is no malice. No vengeance. Arjuna pours his arrows into Grandsire, battering every inch of his banyan-like bulk. The warriors around Grandsire and Arjuna are transfixed by what is happening before them. Already planning the stories they will tell their disbelieving comrades. History…no…a legend is unravelling before them. The sheer awe of the spectacle stops everyone from their bloody task. Sushasana with his mouth open like a child watching a magic trick, Suyodhana’s eyes shining with tears, helpless, Satyaki trying to catch a glimpse of Arjuna’s fingers blurring with the bowstring. I see Grandsire catching Arjuna’s attention with the merest of smiles. Arjuna acknowledges it, bowing his head ever so slightly. I see their eyes meet and not let go until Grandsire falls to the ground encumbered by the weight of his death.

And then the battlefield comes alive once again. I hear Suyodhana bawling for a medic and Sushasana with Guru Drona followed by a platoon of Kaurava chariots scrambling desperately to Grandsire’s side even as Bhima and Satyaki make to intercept them. My own reverie is broken at this instant when my charioteer asks me if I want to join the fray. As if in a dream I whisper some instructions to him, words I’ll never remember, but my chariot lumbers in the general direction of the fight.

I don’t remember much of the fight after that but it couldn’t have been very long. A parley was called and we spent the remainder of the day paying our respects to Grandsire.

I returned to camp after that and walked straight to my tent, a crude structure fashioned out of animal hide and wooden poles. A large bed with silk sheets and cotton pillows facing the entrance was its primary inhabitant. A tiger-skin rug made up the centrepiece and was strategically placed at the foot of my bed to intimidate visitors or at least suitably awe them. A writing table and stool were placed on the left side of my bed and my armoury—an unwieldy rack of wood—to the right. Tonight, my writing table was cluttered with missives. Unusual, considering I normally received just one letter a day, a combined effort from Draupadi, our wife, and Kunti, our mother. I, and each of my four brothers were required to put our thumbprints on this ‘letter’ we each received individually every night and send it back the same night through a messenger—a sign that things were well.

I sifted through the debris of palm leaves and parchments and opened one of them. It was a long-winded piece of fluff that said something about ‘lending our assistance to your worthy cause. Hope you give us the opportunity’. The others read similar platitudes.