AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (10 page)

“The Nagas are cowards. Why should a Nishada scare you, Kritavarma? We should have stayed in Indraprastha and enjoyed the evening instead.”

“Don’t get me started on your amoral Pandava friends!”

“Kritavarma, you only say that because my brother, Balarama, has an inexplicable fondness for Duryodhana.”

“I get it now, Krishna, why you want to halt in this wilderness. You are aiming at the throne of Dwaraka. You do not wish to save our Dwaraka at all!”

“My brother is a wonderful man but not the leader the Yadavas need now. It is better that he be defeated. The Yadavas can then elect a fit person as King, someone who can...”

Krishna felt the cold tip of Kritavarma’s sword on his neck. “Another word about Balarama and you are dead.”

Krishna tried hard to suppress a smile. Kritavarma had taken the bait. Krishna tugged at the reins of Kritavarma’s horse and it plunged forward in pain, throwing Kritavarma to the ground. Krishna laughed, hoping to provoke him further.

Had a head popped up in the distance? It was dark, with only a few sorry stars staring down from a bleak sky. When Kritavarma tried to get up, Krishna kicked him and laughed again. No warrior worth his salt could swallow such an insult. Kicking a fallen man! That too, a reputed warrior like Kritavarma!

“Draw your sword, you...you...” Kritavarma stood up, stuttering in rage, unable to spell out the insult that frothed in his mouth.

Krishna walked up to his own horse and took down his sword. He took his time removing it from its sheath and then began polishing it with deliberate strokes, as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes never left the boulders in the distance. Another head popped up and vanished in the dark. Krishna slipped his barbed discus into his waistcloth and then walked towards Kritavarma. By the time he reached his Commander, the Narayana Sena had split into two factions and most had dismounted from their horses. One group bowed to him and he acknowledged them. The other group stood behind Kritavarma, watching the proceedings with hostility.

“Let us decide the rules of the duel...” Kritavarma did not finish.

“Attack!” barked Krishna to his supporters.

Kritavarma’s mouth opened in surprise. They had not even agreed on the rules of combat, yet Krishna had ordered an attack on him! Before he could react, men were running towards him with drawn swords.

“Kill those unscrupulous Yadavas,” Kritavarma shouted, parrying a deadly sword swipe with his own blade.

His followers attacked Krishna’s men. Soon, what should have been a civilized duel, turned into a full-fledged battle. Krishna kept himself to the periphery of the fighting men, far from the enraged Yadava Commander. He kept taunting Kritavarma about his lineage to fan his outrage. Men began dropping dead on both sides. Limbs were severed and faces gored. There was blood everywhere. The Yadavas were hacking each other to death. Over the din and fierce cries of battle, Krishna’s eyes kept searching for any movement from the hidden enemy. Nothing stirred. His men were dying in a battle he had started. Had he lost the gamble?

***

“Don’t move!” Vasuki hissed to Takshaka, but the Naga leader was getting restless. The Yadavas were fighting each other to the death and this was the most opportune moment to finish off the notorious Narayana Sena, as well as Krishna himself. “That cunning Yadava and his tricks!” Vasuki hissed again.

‘Perhaps he is and perhaps he is not,’ mused Takshaka. The Yadavas had always been notorious for their in-fighting and drinking.

“We only have to delay them enough for Ekalavya to take Dwaraka. Don’t bat an eyelid. Be still.” Desperation sounded in Vasuki’s voice.

‘Why is he using that tone with me, the cranky old man?’ Like a thunderbolt, the answer struck Takshaka. ‘Wily old rascal! He knows that his own plan of making Ekalavya leader of the Nagas will fail if I get Krishna.’

“Krishna is faking it. Stay here!” Vasuki cried as Takshaka rose from his hiding place.

‘If the cunning Yadava was faking the battle, would he allow his own elite soldiers to die like this?’ Takshaka wondered. No, it was real.

Vasuki grabbed Takshaka’s wrist in a last ditch attempt to stop him. The revolutionary leader pulled his hand away with contemptuous ease. “Attack!” he shouted.

Screaming and yelling, the Nagas ran towards the Yadavas. They did not see Vasuki get up and run through the scrub and desert as fast as his tired old legs could carry him. Neither did they see Krishna who was no longer among the group of fighters hacking each other to death.

***

At last! Krishna heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the Nagas leave their hiding place and rush towards them. He crouched behind the carcass of one of the slain horses. The smell of death hung in the air. Twenty of his elite soldiers were dead and many others wounded in the in-fighting.

Takshaka was only a few feet from Kritavarma when Krishna rushed from his hiding place towards them. Holding his
Sudharshana chakra
in one hand, he hacked his way through the melée with his sword in his other hand, not bothering to see whether it was a Naga or Yadava he was cutting down. Takshaka and Kritavarma were engaged in deadly swordplay. Krishna hurled himself on the Naga leader. They fell to the ground, rolling over. In a trice Krishna had prised Takshaka’s sword from his hand. When the dust settled, Takshaka was on his knees with Krishna standing behind him. The sharp edge of the
Sudharshana
gleamed against the dark skin of Takshaka’s throat. There was an angry roar from the Nagas and they rushed to save their leader, swords and lances at the ready.

“Ask your men to drop their arms.” Krishna’s voice was calm. A smile played on his lips.

“Kill him!” Takshaka barked and a few Nagas stepped out, ready to strike Krishna.

“Don’t tempt me, Takshaka,” Krishna said and yanked the Naga leader’s head up by the hair. He pressed his
Sudharshana
harder and a fine red line appeared on Takshaka’s throat. Drops of blood dripped onto the earth, making dark blotches where Takshaka knelt. One by one, the Nagas dropped their arms.

“Now you die,” Krishna said without emotion.

But before he could slit Takshaka’s throat, Kritavarma grabbed his hand and tried to prise away the
Sudharshana.
“Krishna, this is ignoble and unfair. You gave your word.”

“Kritavarma, you fool... let me do my duty.”

Takshaka seized his opportunity as the Yadavas argued. He scooped up some sand and threw it in Krishna’s face. The split second during which Krishna loosened his grip was enough for Takshaka, who wrenched out of Krishna’s grasp and fled for his life.

“Catch him!” Krishna yelled in frustration. His eyes were still itching from the sand and he was unable to see clearly, but he knew the Nagas were escaping. By the time his sight cleared, all the important Naga rebels had gone.

“Satisfied now?” Krishna asked the still fuming Kritavarma, shaking his head in exasperation.

“Krishna, what you did was both dishonourable and deceitful. This is not the warrior’s way…”

“My friend, an ambush was waiting for us. They would have slaughtered us had we walked into it. I had no other choice but to provoke you...”

“You are a genius, Sir,” one of the older soldiers cried. “We did not realise it was part of your plan.”

His men lauded his wisdom as Krishna stood basking in their praise. The night grew old and streaks of grey appeared in the east. If only Kritavarma had not stopped him from doing his duty. Why did he not understand this was war and there was nothing unfair about winning? But the Commander burned with anger and humiliation.

“Come, let us forget this and go on, Kritavarma,” Krishna said, extending his hand.

“Forget what, Krishna? The death of twenty of my finest boys? What will I say to their families when I return to Dwaraka? You feel smug that you have saved the majority. That is poor consolation for the families of the dead, killed by their own comrades in arms. How will I face their widows? What a dishonourable victory!”

Krishna sighed as he looked at the smoke rising from the funeral pyres built for the dead soldiers. Then he turned and yelled at the top of his voice, “Let us rush to Dwaraka, my friends. There is no time to lose.”

The elite cavalry rapidly fell into formation. Krishna’s horse shot forward like an arrow and the Narayana Sena galloped behind him. They rode for the better part of that day, stopping only to rest their horses and have a quick meal. Krishna tried to make amends to Kritavarma, but the Commander refused to speak. By evening, they had reached the outskirts of Dwaraka.

“Oh my God!” Krishna cried in anguish. A huge army of Nishadas were engaged in a pitched battle with Balarama’s men.

“For our motherland, for Dwaraka, and for Balarama...” Kritavarma raised his sword high in the air and rushed into battle. His men rode behind him with daredevil bravery.

Krishna shook his head in dismay. When would his people learn? There was no point in being chivalrous towards enemies who attacked an undefended city or waited in ambush. It was neither cruelty nor cowardice to beat them with cunning and skill. In this game, there were no rules or laws; only winning mattered. The man who was fighting so nobly would have been the first person to break the rules had he known what lay in store for him. Krishna felt pity stir for Kritavarma, but he did not have the luxury to stand and watch them get butchered by the Nagas. Dwaraka had to be saved at any cost. His brother would see goodness even in his enemies and walk into a trap. Krishna would have to do something daring again, something distasteful to people who forgot to look at the whole picture. He had to do what he felt was right without worrying about the results and what others would say about his methods. He had to perform his
karma.

Krishna took out his
Sudharshana
and began moving towards the enemy. His form merged with the shadows. He had to find Ekalavya before his brother met the Nishada.

*****

8
   
R
EFUGE

“SISTER, WHY ARE YOU LEAVING THE PALACE?”
Gandhari asked.

Kunti ignored her, seething with rage. She ordered the maids to pack only two saris and no ornaments. She would not take anything that belonged to that hated Duryodhana or his blind father. She would leave the palace with only the possessions she had brought when she came with her sons. Kunti did not want anyone’s charity, not when she had five warrior sons.

Gandhari found her way to her sister-in-law and took her trembling hands in her own. “Do not leave. What will the people say about the King? About me?”

“You are worried about appearances, Gandhari. I have suffered enough, living in your palace. Can you say no one poisoned me or arranged to stab me in my sleep? I have had enough. I will not stay a moment longer in this cursed place.”

Gandhari withdrew her hands and steadied herself, trying hard to control the sharp words that rose to her tongue. What right had Kunti to accuse her? She was the daughter of the great Gandharan King, Suvala, the
pativrata
who had refused the light denied to her blind husband; no, she did not have to listen to accusations and abuse from a woman who had conceived children with men other than her husband. Gandhari’s lips curled in disdain. “Sister, it is your choice to leave. Let these servants be witness that the daughter of Gandhara has not failed in her
dharma.”

Before Kunti could answer, Gandhari had turned and left the room. When she reached the door of the royal chambers, she flinched at the sickening noise coming from within. Dhritarashtra was hammering the iron replica of Bhima with his mace. She walked in softly, not wishing to start a conversation. She wanted to be alone. She felt triumphant, afraid and angry at the same time. In her heart, she had hated the stiff formalities of the Hastinapura court from the day she had set foot in the city of elephants. Though she had learned to love her husband and her adopted land, she yearned for Gandhara in the quiet moments when she was alone. The vivid memories of the day her father and all her brothers except Shakuni, died in Bhishma’s invasion, still haunted her in her dreams. Even after all these years she woke moaning from her sleep, mourning her father and brothers. Her husband no longer stirred in his slumber, nor did the palace maids rush to enquire about her troubled dreams.

But she was not the only one who had nightmares. Some nights, the shouts of Dhritarashtra challenging his long dead brother, Pandu, to a duel, would echo through the dark corridors. He would boast how his strong hands had stopped an elephant from trampling his brother in childhood, and how much better he was with the mace, despite his blindness. In the oppressive loneliness of the crowded palace, in the royal chamber fragrant with exotic perfumes, Gandhari would sit watching her sleeping husband – pity, revulsion and love filling her heart.

She hated Kunti with a vehemence that was matched only by Kunti’s hatred of her. Her sharp intelligence allowed her to see how meaningless their hatred was, when they were both equal sufferers in a man’s world where women were stolen, pawned or deified, but never treated as equals. Yet they both fought like trapped cats, not against the trap but each other, maiming and scratching, fiercely protective of their kittens; yet showing faces of gentility and loveliness to the world watching them.