Geetha Krishnan's Blog, page 18

Thirty Seven

The camp where Pandu stayed with his family was neither silent nor still. Maids and attendants moved across the encampment, doing their daily tasks. It was mid afternoon, and the sun shone bright into the area that had been cleared of trees. The window shades of all the huts had been drawn and those of the royal family who were outside sat in the shade. Vidura sat on a tree stump, polished into a stool, and wondered about his next course of action.

It was hard to see Pandu being so stubborn. Vidura wondered if it was possible for him to despise him any more than he already did. He’d always known Pandu was a weakling, not fit to be King, but he’d never realized just how weak What was. What else was it but weakness that he should not even attempt to give his son his birthright? What else but weakness would cause a man to deprive his son of his rights because he didn’t want to create a dissension in the family? What was Pandu so afraid of? What if it created dissension? Did he not know that there were things worth fighting for? What sort of Kshatriya was he? Conflict was not something a Kshatriya should be afraid of.

When the children were born, and Pandu was hesitant, Vidura had hoped it was a temporary phase. He had hoped that in time, Kunti might be able to persuade him. He was wise enough to stay out of it, knowing that any attempt on his part to bring his brother to his senses would only lead him to do the opposite. But the time for such wisdom was past. Yudhistira was turning six the next month, and it was time to start his formal education. What sort of education was he going to get in this forest? But all his representations were of no use. Pandu remained unmoved. He would not lay claim to the throne on behalf of his son. Yudhistira was a gentle and soft spoken child. He was better off in the forest than the palace where he would have to change into mean and cunning.

Vidura wished he could open his brother’s eyes. Yudhistira might be soft spoken, but he was already cunning and manipulative, thanks to his mother’s training. But even Yudhistira’s tricks had not availed them. Vidura knew that Yudhistira wanted to go to Hastinapura. Kunti had told him enough stories to make him want to go. He did not yet know what it meant to be King, but he was not averse to the idea. Bheema would follow where Yudhistira led. But how could Yudhistira lead, if Pandu would not let him? Vidura knew he would need to take drastic measures. It was true he had other sons from his wife, but none of them had any chance of becoming King. No matter what happened, neither he nor his sons would ever be considered for the throne. That had been made clear to him over time. But Yudhistira, though born of him, was legally Pandu’s son. He could be King, given the opportunity.

Vidura looked at Pandu where he sat, one boy on each knee. He was smiling. He looked happy and contented. Vidura wondered again what kind of coward he was. Madri sat at a distance, watching him with an angry look on her face. It must kill her that Pandu chose Kunti to bear children and not her. But Vidura had no regrets. He had no desire for Madri. Kunti on the other hand… even now, his desire for her was as strong as ever. He’d hoped that she would not have conceived from the night they spent together, but it was a vain hope. She had conceived which made it unnecessary for him to visit again. He knew that Pandu was not happy with his subsequent visits once the children were born. The rules of Niyoga dictated that he keep his distance, but he had told Pandu that there was nothing to prevent him from taking an interest in the boys since, by law, they were his nephews.

Nephews! Yudhistira looked like an amalgamation of his parents. He had Vidura’s brows and chin and his mother’s eyes and the high cheekbones were also from her. For the first time, Vidura was glad Pandu and he were brothers, and their features similar enough that Yudhistira’s appearance would pass scrutiny by anyone. Bheema, on the other hand looked more like his maternal uncle. Vidura had not met Vasudeva, but he had heard him described. Bheema had the Yadu features, and in a way, that was fortunate, for, someday his brother might need allies, and the Yadus were powerful. Vasudeva’s son had slain Kamsa, the King of the Yadus, and now, the Yadus were governed by a council. It was rumoured that Kamsa’s father-in-law, Jarasandha was harassing them, but so far, the Yadus had held their own. Vidura knew he would need to pay attention to what was happening in Mathura.

Someone cleared their throat, and Vidura shaded his eyes as he looked up. Kunti stood there, looking at him with that mixture of contempt and revulsion in her expression. He indicated to the ground next to the stump where he sat.

“No need to loom over me,” he said.

Her lips thinned, but she bit back whatever retort had risen to her lips, as she sank down gracefully next to him.

“You talked to him today.”

“Since you failed to persuade him, I thought I’d take a hand.”

“And how did that go?”

He shrugged. “He’s an obstinate man.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she smoothed the front of her angavastra. “He never denies the child anything. I was hoping he would be able to persuade him.”

“That didn’t happen, obviously.”

“I don’t think he can be persuaded,” Kunti said, and he could hear the resignation in her voice. It angered him, that she would give up so easily.

“So, you’re giving up?” he asked, more sharply than he meant to.

“What else is there to do?” she asked bitterly. “I cannot force him, I cannot persuade him, and neither can anyone else. There’s nothing to be done.”

Vidura was silent. He was not ready to accept defeat so easily. If Pandu could not be persuaded, he would need to be removed. Once he was dead, his widows and children could be returned to Hastinapura without any questions asked. But he would give Pandu one more chance. If he failed to listen once more, he would get rid of Pandu. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to mourn him. Vidura did not know how he reached the decision, but having made it, he was determined not to delay further. Yudhistira had already spent enough time in the forest. Vidura would ensure that he did not spend any more time here than was absolutely necessary. He knew well enough not to tell Kunti his decision. It might be good to have her help, but he would manage by himself. If he could poison Gandhari in the palace, Pandu in the forest would be no matter. All he had to do was to ensure that the poison would be undetected and that the death should appear natural. If any foul play were to be suspected, Kunti’s mind would immediately jump to him. And whilst he knew that she had no affection for Pandu, but she had a strong sense of duty, and he could not be certain she would see things his way.

Thirty Six

Vasushena was late that day returning home. It wasn’t because Bakula held him up. In fact, Bakula had left, though he had not given any indication to Vasushena the previous day. Vasushena had searched for him all morning before returning home despondently. He could not believe that Bakula had left just like that. Vasushena had not told anyone about Bakula. He had lied to his father about why he could not learn how to mend wheels, to drive a chariot and to ride a horse during the mornings. He had starved in order to take food to Bakula, and yet, in the end, the man had left without even telling him. A part of him knew that Bakula had helped him as much as he could, that the man was perhaps not necessary to his continued education, but that was not the point. Bakula had betrayed his trust when he left in secret, without a word. And that was a new experience for Vasushena. He had never come across someone who broke a word so casually. It bothered him. For the first time, he regretted not asking Bakula who he really was. After all, someone had been after him. What if it was the soldiers? What if Bakula was a thief? Or an assassin?

“Where were you?” Atiratha asked, when he reached home. “I’ve been waiting for you. Have you forgotten that today I don’t have to work? We could have spent the entire day learning.”

“I’m sorry father,” he apologized, not wanting to tell another lie, and yet, not wanting to tell the truth either. “I shall not do it again. We can learn in the morning from tomorrow, if you prefer.”

Atiratha looked at his son with troubled eyes. There was something bothering his child. It was very evident to him. But he didn’t want to pry. His son was growing up, and he might not appreciate his father wanting to know every detail of his life. Whatever it was, Vasushena would tell him when he was ready. Or he would not tell him at all. Either way, he would not pry.

“Go and have your bath,” he said. “Today, we will not be having any lessons. We’ll start tomorrow morning.”

Vasushena did not even ask why. He simply nodded and made his way to the river. It was still hot, but the river was not still. Though the current was not very strong at their bathing ghat, he could see the ripples on the surface. There was a strong wind blowing. The ghat was deserted, which suited him. He did not want to make small talk or to pretend to be cheerful for his friends. He was not cheerful. And he doubted if anything would make him feel cheerful today.

“You’re back,” his mother smiled at him as he entered the house, fresh from his bath. “Has your father told you the news yet?”

“What news?”

She ruffled his hair, though he was already taller than her. “You’re going to have another brother. Or perhaps a sister.” her smile was radiant.

Vasushena stared at her. He had not expected it. A brother or a sister. He grinned. It was the best news ever.

“Does Sangrama know yet?”

Radha shook her head. “I didn’t want him to know till I’ve told you. You’re the eldest. And it will be your job to take care of your younger brothers.”

“Or sister,” Vasushena said, still grinning. He could not stop. He felt as if there was a bubble inside of him, a large bubble filled with laughter and joy. It filled his chest till it hurt, and yet it felt good. He could not remember the last time he had felt like this. Perhaps the day Sangrama was born. He hoped that his new brother would not be as irritating as Sangrama, but his hopes weren’t high. But still, he would take care of him or her, just as he took care of Sangrama.

“When will he be born?” he asked. “And what shall we name him?”

“There’s time enough for that,” Radha laughed. “He won’t be born for an ayana yet, maybe longer.”

“But we can still have toys made,” he said. “I can ask Asmita. His father knows how to make toys made of wood.”

“Let’s wait till he’s born,” Radha said. “It’s bad luck to have things made for the baby before his birth. We don’t want to tempt fate.”

“Okay,” Vasushena nodded. “But there has to be something we can do which isn’t bad luck.”

“Of course, there is. You can take care of Sangrama, and you can help me with some of my work if you want. And you can also help your father, so he won’t be under too much stress.”

“Okay,” he said. “But do I have to take care of Sangrama? He’s a bit irritating.”

“Oh you naughty boy,” she laughed, pretending to box his ears. “What sort of big brother are you?”

Vasushena grinned. “The best kind. You know it.”

“Then, you go and bring your brother back from the playground, so he can have his bath, and we can all have lunch.”

“Must I?” Vasushena asked in a despairing tone.

Radha brandished a ladle and he laughed, and ran out. He made his way to the playground, feeling happy. What did it matter if Bakula left? He had taught him enough. He would practice everyday till he found another teacher. His father could teach him what he had to in the mornings, but the afternoons and evenings were all his, and no one could take them from him. He knew his mother was only partly joking when she said he would need to take care of his brother and help around the house, but even with all that, there should still be enough time to practice. He was feeling that he was indeed fortunate. Whatever or whoever Bakula was, he’d taught him. How many boys in his position would have been fortunate to get a teacher at all? But he had been so fortunate. His father, knowing his real interest did not tell him not to pursue it. Vasushena might be young, but not foolish. He knew that most Sutas would have tried to discourage their sons from such dreams, but not Atiratha. Gratitude welled in Vasushena at the thought of his father. He was fortunate to have parents who not just loved him, but accepted him for what he was, no matter it was different from what they knew or expected. And now, he was going to have another sibling. He was indeed blessed. He could not believe he had spent half the day feeling sorry for himself.

Thirty Five

“That’s good,” Bakula said, watching Vasushena with a keen eye. Vasushena had cleared an area in the forest so he could practice with the weapons. He was a fast learner, and Bakula knew there wasn’t much more he could teach him. Everything else was practice and experience, and those were things that none could teach. But would the boy understand that? And even if he did, would he accept it? What if he stopped bringing food? Bakula’s ankle was much better now, it was true, but his ankle had been broken and not twisted, and he still was not in a position to leave. He could limp without pain, but without Vasushena’s help he might not be walking now. Vasushena had somehow managed to smuggle him back into the city so a physician could set and bind his ankle, and he’d also carried Bakula back to the cave at his insistence. Though Vasushena had insisted that he could keep Bakula hidden in the city, Bakula knew it was nothing but the foolish certainty of a child who had never been in contact with reality. The boy had capitulated only when Bakula insisted that it would be impossible for him to teach him if they were in the city.

This boy would be a skilled warrior someday. Perhaps one of the best they had ever seen. But that would still depend on whether he could find someone to teach him further, and whether he would be allowed to pursue his dream. Bakula was more certain than ever that this boy wasn’t the son of a Suta. He was the son of a Kshatriya. Not that it mattered. It was a pity if this boy happened to be a Kshatriya, because he had some good qualities. He kept his word, for one. No Kshatriya was known for honouring their promises, though they always made it seem like they did. Vasushena did bring him food, he hunted for him, and cooked for him, and he also brought him clothes. He said his father was teaching him his hereditary work in the evenings. It probably meant the boy was doing with very little sleep, and yet showing no wear. He was always there at sunup. And he never complained about anything. Which was another quality that distinguished him from every other Kshatriya out there. All of them were whiners. Having been born into the ruling class, they behaved as though the world would order itself to suit them, and if it didn’t, they would moan and whine. But the world they lived in did order itself to suit the rulers. The Brahmanas liked to think they wielded the real power, but their power depended on the Kshatriyas. Despite what common people imagined, the Kshatriyas were not dependent on the Brahmanas’ endorsement. Not any more. It might have been true in the past, but not any more. The Brahmanas knew they had to support the Kshatriyas or what little power they had would be lost too.

Vasushena lowered his sword, and asked. “Is everything all right?”

Bakula nodded. “Yes, you’re doing well. I was just thinking.”

“If you’re tired, we can stop.”

“I’m fine. Besides, you need to practice.”

“I’d rather practice my archery.”

“You’re already quite proficient at it, and you’ve practiced it almost all morning. It’s time you had a turn with some of the other weapons.”

“But can’t you teach me more? What about divine weapons?”

“There’s no such thing,” he said. “There are weapons of incalculable destructive powers, but none of them are divine in origin. That’s just propaganda. They are secrets, the creation and deployment known only to a select few.”

“You mean you don’t know them.”

“No. There are only two men in the entire Bharatavarsha who are privy to their secrets at the moment. One is the legendary Parasurama. The other is your Senapati, Bheeshma, who was taught by Parasurama himself. Neither would give away their secrets. Parasurama have sworn an oath that he would never again impart that knowledge to anyone but a Brahmana.”

“But Brahmanas are not warriors, are they?”

“If they want to be, who’ll stop them? Rules are applicable only to the lower echelons. Parasurama is a Brahmana, you know.”

“Why did he make such an oath?”

“I don’t know. Sorry to disappoint you, but I am not omniscient.”

Vasushena grinned. “But you must still know the rumours.”

“Really? You want to listen to gossip?”

“Rumours. And didn’t you tell me that all rumours must have a grain of truth somewhere? That they all must have started with the truth?”

“Did I?” Bakula sighed. “Why do you remember all those inconvenient things anyway?”

“So, what does the rumour say?”

“The rumour says that Bheeshma humbled and humiliated Parasurama in battle using the very weapons that he learned from him. So, Parasurama swore he would never again teach a Kshatriya or anyone except a Brahmana since he considers all other classes to be- dishonourable.”

“Did Bheeshma really defeat him?”

“Yes. That is verifiable fact. Bheeshma and Parasurama did have an altercation from which Parasurama did not emerge victorious.”

“Why did they fight?”

“No one knows. This was all a long time ago, you know. I wasn’t even born then, and all I know is the songs that are sung by the bards. I should think that you would be more well versed in such lore than I am.”

“Because I’m a Suta?” Vasushena asked stiffly.

“Your class are the keepers of all the tales. So yes, one would expect you to be conversant with the stories.”

“I’ve never… that is my mother had told me stories, but only of people who died a long time ago. She hasn’t told me anything about living people.”

“Smart of her. To be honest, it wouldn’t be an intelligent move to tell tales about Bheeshma in his own city.”

“So… they’re just tales? No truth?”

“Like I said, what the bards sing… they might be true in part, but never in whole, and who’s to say which parts are true and which aren’t.”

“And what is this tale that you are so reluctant to tell me?” Vasushena looked at Bakula expectantly. Bakula sighed again. The boy really was too curious for his own good.

“It involves someone whose name it is now forbidden to utter within Hastinapura. The Kasi Princess Amba. The older sister of the two queen mothers.”

“What happened to her?”

“Again, no one knows. Rumours say Bheeshma wronged her and killed her, and that Parasurama fought him for her honour at the behest of her grandfather who had adopted Sanyasa. But, no one knows the truth. And neither Bheeshma nor Parasurama are likely to tell.”

“Did Bheeshma really- do all those things?”

“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me if I did. Kshatriyas… well… they live by a different set of rules. There’s no act so heinous that would be incapable of by a Kshatriya or a Brahmana.” Bakula tried to keep bitterness out of his voice. Of course, Pradhanamantrin Vidura was neither a Kshatriya nor a Brahmana, but he was proving to be worthy of belonging to either class. And Bakula knew he had to leave soon. If someone noticed Vasushena coming into the forest and followed him, it would not be long before the news spread. He might not be at full strength or health, but he could limp along fairly well. As long as he was careful, there was no reason for him to stay any longer. He would wait one more week to allow his ankle to heal further, and then he would leave.

Thirty Four

Pandu sat in front of his hut watching his sons. They had taken their first steps a week back, and now it was as if they could not stop exploring every angula of the compound. The dasis were always with them, but at a discreet distance. A few falls or scraped knees were not going to hurt two Kshatriya Princes, and the dasis were there there to ensure nothing more serious happened. Pandu could feel his heart swell with pride as he watched them. Bheema had started walking a day or so earlier than Yudhistira, and even now when Yudhistira was no longer small and sickly, Bheema was still the larger and sturdier child. Yudhistira was also quieter than Bheema. Though their speech was not intelligible as yet, Bheema could not stop chattering away in that language of all children. The sages had assured him that both children were growing and developing as they should, and there was no cause for concern.

Speaking of sages, a frown appeared on Pandu’s face as he thought of the group that were his guests now. They were a group of sages dedicated to the study of medicines, and when they first came three days ago, Pandu was happy and honoured. It was hard to find physicians in the forest, and though most sages had a basic knowledge of medicine, it was good to have expert opinion on his sons’ growth and development. But then one of the younger sages had started paying too much attention to Madri, and Pandu had seen the look on his eyes, and it was all he could do to stop himself from hitting the man. Madri was his wife still, and he did not like it that a sage’s roving eye should fall on her.

He rose from where he sat. He would go find Madri. He should warn her about the man. She was such an innocent. Of course, the sages would be gone in another week which was why Pandu had done nothing so far. But he could warn his wife. He sometimes wished Madri had been more like Kunti, though he loved her innocence and her complete unawaredness of what the real world was like. Kunti would need no warning against men. She was intelligent enough to know and to steer clear of such men. Just as she had been intelligent enough to agree to Niyoga. Pandu knew Madri would have been horrified had he asked it of her, but Kunti was practical. Besides, Pandu was not certain how he would have liked it to have another man touch Madri. She was his, all his. Kunti had always been her own person, and it had made him uncomfortable even in the early days of their marriage.

The only regret Pandu had was in following the accepted practices to have Vidura father his children. Though brothers, Vidura and he had never seen eye to eye, and their relation was not made easier by the birth of the children. Though the rules of Niyoga explicitly stated that the man who fathered the children had no claim on them, Vidura was ignoring those, visiting so often that Pandu wondered if the Pradhanamantrin no longer had any duties in Hastinapura. He could not like it, and he did not know why Kunti encouraged him. Vidura had been throwing subtle hints his way to make him return to the palace, and claim the throne for Yudhistira, but Pandu was certain that he did not want a life in palace for his son. All the intrigues, spying, and politics was not what he wanted for his children. The only reason he had gone for Niyoga was because he had wanted sons without whom it was impossible to attain peace in the afterlife.

What galled him was the way Kunti agreed with Vidura. She wanted Yudhistira to be the next King, no matter that neither Pandu nor his sons had any claim on the throne any more since he had abdicated, and even if they did, Pandu knew that Dhritarashtra’s sons were born if not early, at least on the same day as his own, making it difficult to determine who was elder. Kunti and Vidura just blithely assumed that if they could prove Yudhistira was elder, all problems could be solved. After all, they argued, Pandu had not abdicated of his own free will, but was forced to, by Bheeshma. Pandu was tired of pointing out to them that it did not matter. Once a King abdicated, he and his children lost all claims to the throne. But Vidura simply said that all rules could be changed. Nothing was set in stone.

Unthinkingly Pandu’s feet had carried him to the river. He wanted to be away from the compound, to be away from people. He made a gesture to disperse the dasas who followed him at a discreet distance. He had always hated being hemmed in with people, be it guards or attendants. It had always made him too conscious of himself. His uncle had told him he should not pay attention to them. Guards were there to keep him safe, and attendants to make him comfortable. To most, they were just part of the furniture, but Pandu was aware of the eyes on him, and he never could relax when he could feel them.

A smothered laugh broke into his thoughts. Madri was standing by the river, next to the young sage whose eyes were roving over her boldly. She did not appear to mind, standing too close to him and smiling at him. Pandu felt fury rise in him. She was his wife, and here she was, flirting on the sly with some stranger! Neither had seen him, the tree by which he was standing hiding him from their view.

“I should go,” Her voice was low, and she looked at the sage from under her lashes as she spoke.

“Must you?” His voice was husky. “Do not cast me into darkness again, I beg you. Stay a while.”

“You say such pretty things,” she was smiling. “Do you say so to all the women you meet?”

“Ah, you are cruel to say so. Are you a woman? I would have thought you an apsara come to shake my resolve and the peace of my mind.”

Pandu cleared his throat loudly as he walked around the tree. Madri took a hurried step away from the sage, guilt evident in every line of her face, but the sage simply bowed.

“Lord Pandu. I was simply giving some company to your queen.”

Pandu wanted to hit him, but he remembered that this was a sage, and besides Madri was obviously encouraging him. He waited till the sage was out of earshot before he turned his wrathful glance on him.

“How dare you!” he said, angrily. “Have you no shame?”

“Why?” she asked, her colour high, and her voice quivering. “Is it only your first wife who is entitled to have her desires slaked and to have sons? Am I to spend my life in being her dasi?”

Pandu tried to bring his temper under control. If all she wanted was children, he could be reasonable. “The rules of Niyoga are clear. You know that. If you are desirous of being a mother, I shall talk to Vidura and he shall come to you in your next fertile period.”

“I’d die before I let your brother touch me!” She snapped. “He revolts me!”

“Niyoga is a duty,” he informed her coldly. “What you want does not enter into it. I won’t have a child fathered by some unknown sage, and that’s final.”

“He is blessed by the Aswins!” she said desperately. “Isn’t that worth anything?”

“I don’t care if he’s blessed by Devendra himself!” Pandu yelled. “I won’t have it. And you will not meet him again. Is that clear? You are a married woman, and you will stop behaving like a whore!”

“I’m sure you’ve plenty of experience of how whores behave, though you can’t even satisfy your wife!” Tears were streaming down Madri’s cheeks as she pushed past him and ran to the compound. Pandu punched the sapling that stood next to him.

Thirty Three

Sakuni was pacing the room agitatedly. Dhritarashtra thought of telling him to stop. The sound of the footsteps was irritating, but he kept quiet mainly because he could understand the man’s agitation. If he weren’t afraid of bumping into furniture, he would be pacing the room too. This was not the familiar contours of his room wherein he could have paced all he wanted without any fear of bumping into anything. This was the guest mansion allotted to Sakuni, and Dhritarashtra had chosen to visit him there because at the moment he had more faith in the guards that Sakuni had outside the room who ensured they were not eavesdropped upon, than in his own. Gandhari was sitting next to him, her hand a soothing presence in his. When he thought of how close he had come to losing her, his fingers tightened on hers. She returned the pressure of his hand and she could feel her smile.

“Stop that pacing, will you?” Gandhari asked. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

“How can you-? Oh never mind!” Sakuni stopped, sitting on a chair next to his sister. “It must be an infernal nuisance, having to hear things none of might even notice.”

“But useful,” Gandhari said. “I can detect even the slightest nuances in people’s voices. It comes in handy, especially since the maids lie all the time.”

“The attendants do too,” Dhritarashtra smiled. “But mostly about unimportant things, so we can let it slide.”

“And you know Vidura was lying the other day,” Sakuni said. “When he said your son- your son-my nephew- would be the destroyer of our race.”

“He didn’t believe his words any more than we did,” Gandhari asserted. “Kripa on the other hand, believed we would be doing the right thing by abandoning Suyodhana.”

“Why would Vidura say such a thing?” Sakuni demanded. “He’s the Pradhanamantrin for crying out loud. Why would he want to get rid of the future King?”

“My guess is as good as yours,” Dhritarashtra said, trying not to show how perturbed he really was. When Vidura had spoken of the omens, and his own conclusion, he’d been shocked. Of course, he remembered that night a few weeks ago when somehow some animals had made their way into the city, and filled the night with their noises. But to infer that it was the night of Suyodhana’s birth, and that it was due to his birth, and it indicated that he would destroy their race was too much. Thing was, none of them knew when exactly Suyodhana was born. The sage Vyasa had left without giving them an exact time or day, though he’d given them detailed horoscopes of all seven princes and the princess. That had been a surprise, Dhritarashtra acknowledged, though not an unpleasant one. Gandhari was over the moon at having a daughter. But seven sons ought to be enough to secure the succession, especially since all of them were as healthy as could be, after the ministrations of the sages.

“I should be getting back to the babies,” Gandhari said. “I don’t like being away from them for long. The nurses are all good, but- I feel they’re safer when I’m with them.”

“Don’t worry,” Sakuni said, his voice reassuring. “They’re guarded by the best Gandhara has. Those guards wouldn’t allow anything to happen to your children, and those nurses will die before they let anyone cause harm to them.”

At one time, Dhritarashtra would have resented the contingent of guards and nurses and serving women that Sakuni had gifted his sister. At one time he would have been angry at the implication that the Kurus could not protect their own princes, but now he was only grateful that Sakuni cared enough to give his own people. Because he had seen how abysmally bad the Kurus’ protection was when they had allowed their queen to be poisoned, and even now, no one knew how the poison had come into the possession of the man who Vidura said was behind the whole thing. Vidura said he was an assassin, but Dhritarashtra was not convinced. He might be blind, but he was not an unlearned fool. Assassins worked in pairs. Always. And this was only one man. Vidura’s best efforts had not produced his partner, and hence they had to conclude that the man had some vendetta against the Kurus.

The sage had not been too forthcoming about the details of the poison either. Which could mean one of two things. Either he didn’t know much of the poison, or he knew too much, and decided it was better not to tell them. Dhritarashtra did not know which of the scenarios he found more disturbing. He did not want to press the two sages since they had undoubtedly saved both Gandhari and the babies. Sage Vyasa did tell him that Gandhari would be unable to have any more children. Under the circumstances, Dhritarashtra could not but be glad that she’d given birth to more than one child. No one could browbeat or blackmail him to marrying again. Uncle Bheeshma had not been pleased with his decision, nor with the Gandhara maids surrounding the queen nor with the guards from Gandhara protecting the future King of Hastinapura, but Dhritarashtra was more concerned with the safety of his wife and children than with his uncle’s feelings. If his uncle had been competent, this would not have been necessary, though he did not tell Bheeshma that.

“I think Vidura’s behaviour is very suspicious,” Sakuni said. “He was too insistent on getting rid of your son. Why?”

“He hates me. He despises me.”

“I think it is more than that.” Sakuni said. “I do have a theory about that.”

Dhritarashtra suppressed a sigh. He liked his brother-in-law and he was grateful to him, but he saw a conspiracy everywhere. And he had theories about it all. Most had no basis except his fancies which appeared extremely logical to him, but to no one else.

“What is your theory?” Gandhari asked before Dhritarashtra could profess his disinterest.

“I heard Pandu’s wife had given birth to twins in the forest. If your sons are not there, his son would be the King, would he not?”

“So?”

“We all know Pandu is not – let’s say- able to have children. So, whose children are these?”

“Must be born of Niyoga,” Dhritarashtra said, even as Gandhari gasped in comprehension.

“Yes, but who’s the real father? I bet it is Vidura. That’s why he wanted to get rid of my nephew!”

“You have to be joking,” Dhritarashtra said. “Vidura loathes Pandu, and Pandu despises him.”

“And Kunti hates him,” Gandhari said. “I don’t think she could stand to be in the same room with him, much less… you know.”

“Then why-?”

“Because,” Dhritarashtra said. “Vidura had always had this grudge that he was never considered for the throne.”

“Why should he have been?” Sakuni asked, perplexed.

“Well, Niyoga is the law. So, as per law, Pandu and I are the sons of Vichitravirya, but in actual fact, all three of us share the same father. So, he feels that he should also be considered in line for the throne. There’s also the fact that our real father can be considered the Kanina son of King Santanu, and that would actually make Vidura a prince, and eligible to be considered for the throne. Plus, the fact is, he is better qualified than either of us. So, he has a gripe against us. He probably thinks that without my children, he would have a chance at becoming the King of Hastinapura.”

“You know, that actually makes sense,” Sakuni said. “And with Pandu in the forest, he probably thinks he has a reasonable chance.” he paused. “But I must say that it does worry me.”

“He won’t try anything now, would he?” Gandhari asked.

“We cannot tell. You know, I think you should allow me to take care of him. And of Pandu and his sons too. There’s no saying what Pandu might try to make his son the King.”

“No,” Dhritarashtra shook his head. “I’ll not be a party to the destruction of my own family! My god! How can you even think that!”

“He only meant that we should be safeguarding our children’s inheritance,” Gandhari said “And Vidura has already tried to get us to abandon our children.”

“He hasn’t tried to kill them, has he? He’s just – venting- his frustration. And Pandu hasn’t done anything to any of us! If anything happens to my brothers or to my nephews, I swear Sakuni, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands!”

“Relax,” Sakuni said placatingly. “There’s no need to get angry. I was just exploring an idea, but if you’re not interested, I won’t do anything. I give you my word.”

Before Dhritarashtra could open his mouth, there was a knock at the door. At Sakuni’s softly spoken command to come in, a guard entered,

“Your highness,” he addressed Sakuni. “A messenger has come from Gandhara,”

“Send him in,” Sakuni said. A man entered the room. He was travel stained and weary, and his voice was shaking as he handed over a sealed scroll to Sakuni.

“A message, from home, your majesty.”

Dhritarashtra sucked in a breath, and from the gasp that came from Gandhari, he knew that she had noticed as well. Sakuni was too busy opening the message to notice the way the messenger addressed him. He read the message, and crushed the parchment in his hand.

“It seems I must return to Gandhara,” he said, his voice steady, but his hands were shaking. “My father is dead.”

 

Thirty Two

Bheeshma was standing in his room, eyes closed, hands spread out, head thrown back. Even with his eyes closed, he was aware of everything that went on around him. He could feel the breeze that came in through the balcony, the rustling of the curtains, the flickering of the lamps, the spluttering sound as an insect found its way into the flames. It was not yet dark outside, but the servants had lit the lamps in the room early. He was aware of the chair to his right, the small ornate footstool with a cushion underneath it, the desk next to it, and the scrolls of parchment spread over it. He could see the small cupboard built into the wall, near the desk, where more scrolls were kept. There was a large map of Bharatavarsha on the opposite wall, with a large table near it. There was another map of Hastinapura next to the map of the continent. The doors were closed, and a row of weapons leaned on the wall on the right side of the door. On the left side was a shelf containing armour and helmets. The room was not his living quarters, but his office, and training room. He’d always preferred training with the men in the practice arena, though nowadays he sometimes preferred the privacy of his own room.

The breeze shifted, dropped, and for a moment there was a stillness. Bheeshma could feel the clouds massing overhead, he knew that soon thunder would rumble, and lighting streak across the sky. The door opened as an attendant made his way across the room stealthily to close the balcony doors, and all the windows, and pull the curtains closed. The heavy drapes that framed the thin wisps of silk fell across the windows in dark folds, leaving the room in semi darkness. The attendant started lighting the torches fixed to the brackets in the wall and soon, the room was bathed in the golden light from the torches. Finally, he stoked the coals in the pot on the metal stand, added some more wood to it, and lit it. The room was now as brightly lit as day, and even with his eyes closed, Bheeshma could feel the light. The specially designed vents in the room ensured that smoke would escape out, and there were air vents invisible to the eye which ensured that the breeze was circulated into the room, preventing it from becoming too warm from the fires.

The attendant left, just as stealthily as he entered, and Bheeshma opened his eyes as the skies outside opened. The rain did not come down in a patter, it was a torrent and gushed down like a waterfall, and Bheeshma could imagine the palace of Hastinapura becoming drenched in the rain, the water running in rivulets across the streets of the city, the walkways of the garden till finally it went to join the river, the holy Ganga where a twelve year old Devavrata had immersed his mother’s ashes, watched by his father and his other mother, Satyavati. King Santanu had placed his hand on his shoulder that day and said, “She’s at peace now, Devavrata.”

The sky was clear on that day, but not on the day that his father’s ashes had been immersed in the same river. That day, the skies had opened, and a grim faced Bheeshma and his two young brothers had stood in the river, soaked to the skin and in danger of being swept away as they repeated the mantras chanted by the priests. Satyavati had stood at a distance in a pavilion which had kept the rain out, but her eyes were red-rimmed as she had embraced her sons and looked him in the eye and said, “He’s at peace now, Devavrata,”

Was he? Really? For Bheeshma had seen the sorrow in his father’s eyes as he lay dying, the wistful look he gave his heir, Chitrangada who was only eleven at the time.

“Take care of him, Devavrata,” he had told his eldest. “He’ll be King too young, and he’ll need your guidance and counsel.”

His father had not wanted to die. He had wanted to watch his sons grow up, and he’d wanted to see Chitrangada as the Yuvaraja. But fate had other plans, and who was there who could fight her? Strength and will could do only so much, and in the end, King Santanu had died, leaving his young sons in the hands of his first-born, hoping that he would be the father they had lost as well as their brother.

I tried, Bheeshma thought, I really did, but they were not worthy, either of them. Chitrangada was too quick to anger, and too quick to start a fight while Vichitravirya was indolent and hedonistic.

“Pradhanamantrin Vidura,” the softly spoken words from the herald brought him out of his reverie, and he straightened to face his nephew. Vidura looked the same as ever, though Bheeshma’s trained eyes could see the fatigue, the dark shadows under his eyes and the tiny wrinkles that had begun to mar that smooth face.

“You sent for me, uncle?” Vidura’s voice remained the same, smooth, even, the timbre not varying by a hairsbreadth. It was a pleasant voice, unlike the raspy voice of Pandu and the shrill notes of Dhritarashtra. It struck Bheeshma that Vidura might have made a better King than either of his brothers, but unfortunately he had no claim on the throne.

He waved Vidura to the chair, choosing to remain standing. Vidura took the chair, relaxing into it and looking quite comfortable.

“What was it about, yesterday?” Bheeshma asked.

“Yesterday?” Vidura looked confused.

“You asked-nay, demanded- that the King abandon his first-born!”

“Yes. And you were there, you heard my reasons, and you also know that the Rajaguru agreed with me. So, what exactly is it that you want to know?”

“Bad omens? Really?” Bheeshma asked. “Those omens, as you call them, happened – weeks ago.”

“Which was presumably the day the Prince had been born,” Vidura said. “Just because the sage kept them in quarantine till now does not mean that the princes were born only now.”

“So, you had to make a scene at their naming ceremony?”

“I was thinking of Hastinapura’s best interests. I don’t see why you should harass me for that!”

“You are the Pradhanamantrin. You are not going to serve Hastinapura’s best interests by telling the King to abandon his son!”

“The King made it absolutely clear that he would not consider it anyway, So, no harm done.”

“No harm done? That child is the future King of Hastinapura. And you’ve made him sound like some kind of plague. Do you think that tongues are not going to wag over this?”

“It’ll die down. It always does,” he paused. “Anyway, there’s no saying whether Suyodhana will be the next King, is there? Not if Yudhistira was born first.”

“Is that Pandu’s son?” Bheeshma asked.

“Yes. I appear to be the only one who have seen Pandu’s children.”

“And why is that, I wonder.” Bheeshma said.

“Because I was given the duty of taking the gifts from Hastinapura?” Vidura gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re an intelligent man,” Bheeshma said. “I’ll not insult your intelligence by dropping hints. I’ll be blunt. Are you the father of Pandu’s children?”

Vidura stared before he started laughing. “Me? You honestly think that either Pandu or his wife would choose me to father their child? Pandu despises me. And as for his wife- she’d rather kill me than sleep with me. She hates me.”

“Well, you’ve loathed Pandu all your life, and you did blackmail her into choosing him at the Swayamvara, knowing full well that he was impotent.”

“Which I did at your command.”

“We did what we had to, distasteful as it was.” he paused. “Dhritarashtra has changed, hasn’t he?”

“You mean, he has developed a backbone. Yes, I’d noticed. The influence of Sakuni, no doubt.”

“Why that man can’t remain in his own Kingdom, I can never figure out. But his influence is not a good one. Dhritarashtra was ever amenable to suggestions and advice from both of us. Now, he’s resistant. Instead of punishing him for insubordination, he had made that guard into a minister. It’s unheard of, such acts!”

“Yes, he’s no longer a puppet in our hands, I admit.”

Bheeshma stared at his nephew. “I don’t want him to be a puppet. I just don’t want him to take Sakuni’s advice in all things instead of ours. Sakuni is an outsider. How can he know what’s good for the Kurus? Or for Hastinapura?”

“Perhaps we can get rid of him,” Vidura’s voice was bland, and Bheeshma shivered.

“No. We cannot depend on Dhritarashtra’s leniency should it come to light that we were behind it. Let the prince of Gandhara play adviser. Subala, his father is in failing health. Better to arrange a crisis back home that he can’t stay away from.”

“All right,” Vidura said. “I’ll send word to our spies in Gandhara.”

Bheeshma nodded. That was one reason he liked Vidura. He caught on quick.

Chapter Thirty One

Vasushena knew there was something odd about the broken arrow. And there was something odd about the place too. He’d not been there before. He’d never been this deep, but he had a powerful feeling of being watched. He did not know if it was some animal, perhaps a wolf or a lion or a tiger; they were so deep into the forest that it was quite possible. But if it was an animal, why didn’t it attack? He said nothing to Veera. Veera was already nervous enough. He did not like coming into the forest much, and came only on Vasushena’s insistence. Vasushena decided to go back at the earliest, just to put his mind to rest. He’d carry his knife and bow and arrow. That ought to be protection enough from any animal that might be there.

He went back the next day, around noon. It wasn’t easy to find the place, but Vasushena had marked the trees the previous day with the head of the broken arrow. Veera had been too busy, listening for predators to notice. Even with the marks, it took a long time to find the exact place. Though it was still day, the forest canopy was thick enough to block most of the sun or Vasushena would not have noticed the smoke. It came from behind some bushes, and he made his way there cautiously. He realized it was not a bush, but a large branch concealing something behind. He was about to push it aside when something touched the small of his back.

“Turn around,” a gruff yet familiar voice said.

Vasushena turned around to face Bakula. He was surprised to see him there. But even more surprised at his condition. He was unshaven, and his clothes were filthy, and his hair was wild. He was leaning on a stick, but the sword held to his heart was held in a steady hand, and his eyes were cold, and narrowed.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Exploring the forest,” Vasushena said. “What are you doing here? You… you disappeared. Months ago!”

“None of your business.” Bakula said. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“My friends,” Vasushena lied without thinking. The look in Bakula’s eyes was frightening. It was evident the man was hiding from something or someone, and it was likely that Bakula might kill him if he learned no one knew of his presence. But even now, there was a chance. Vasushena took a step backwards, into the screen of branches.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I ought to,” Bakula said. “I can’t afford anyone to know I’m here.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Vasushena said.

“You’re asking me to put my trust in your discretion? How old are you, boy? Twelve? You won’t be able to keep a secret even if you wanted to!”

Vasushena was offended. “I can keep a secret,” he said. “I’ve been keeping secrets for a long time.”

“Really? What secret would that be?”

“If I told you, it won’t be a secret, would it?” Vasushena knew he was pushing his luck, but somehow he needed to convince Bakula.

“Even so, it is safer for me if you’re dead.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Vasushena said. “I give you my word. No one shall know you’re here.”

Bakula studied his face for a moment. Vasushena wondered what he saw. Strangely, he was not afraid, but felt excited. To be held at sword-point was uncomfortable, but it was also thrilling.

“You really expect me to let you go?” Bakula asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes?” Vasushena suddenly had an idea. “But you know what? I could come every day, and you can teach me all the things you know.”

Bakula looked stunned. “Are you insane, boy? Don’t you know who I am? I’m no teacher! I needed a pretext to stay in the city, and it was a good cover, that’s all.”

“But you do know things. You did teach us things.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a teacher.” he paused. “Besides which, what do I get out of it if I do agree to teach you?”

“I won’t tell anyone about you.”

“I have the sword, and you’re at my mercy. So, no, you won’t be telling anyone even if I don’t teach you anything. In fact, I don’t see why I should. Better to kill you.”

“I’ll bring you food, and clothes!” Vasushena said desperately. “You seem to be injured. It might be difficult for you to hunt.”

Bakula’s hand relaxed, and the sword point dipped. “Food,” he said flatly.

Vasushena nodded. “I promise.”

“Look,” Bakula said. “Aren’t you even curious to know why I was in Hastinapura and why I’m in hiding?”

Vasushena was curious, but he shook his head resolutely. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to know. You’re my teacher, and that’s all I need to know.”

“You are a strange one.” Bakula said, his eyes still intent on Vasushena. “What about your parents? You’re old enough to learn the craft and trade of your father. Won’t he miss you?”

“He knows I’m not interested in that. He lets me off in the afternoon, and I can come to you then,”

“And make your way back in the evening, in the dark? No. If we’re doing this, you’ve to be here at sunup every day. Get your father to teach you in the afternoon.”

“He has duties in the afternoon.”

“Not my problem. I’ll teach you, but only if you come at sunup. And as you noticed, I am injured, so the weapons training will have to be more theoretical. I can tell you, not show you.”

Vasushena considered. He could tell his father he needed to practice his archery in the morning. His father knew he wasn’t interested in learning the Suta trade anyway. He could not pass up this opportunity. Whatever Bakula was, he was knowledgeable, and he was willing to teach him. He might never get a chance to have a proper teacher again.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come back at sunup tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget the food, or clothes,” Bakula said, stepping out of his way. “Can you find the place again?”

Vasushena nodded. He didn’t tell Bakula about marking the trees. He would have to make the marks deeper if he was to navigate his was early in the morning before sunrise.

“Yes,” he replied.

Chapter Thirty

Bakula woke suddenly, and was alert the next moment. Something had caused him to wake. He looked around, but all was still. He could tell that the sun was about to rise. He had to get a move on if he wanted to make the cave before sunset that day. He wasn’t certain he would. The swelling on his ankle was worse, and he could hardly move his leg. But he knew he had to try. He didn’t want to die in this forest. He didn’t want to die. Period. But that might just happen if he did not somehow get to that cave. He hoped his ankle was not broken. Though all assassins had enough knowledge about human anatomy to take care of most injuries, a broken bone was not one he felt competent to fix, especially not in a forest. But he could try and find herbs to bring down the swelling.

The day passed much as the previous one had. The swelling did not subside, and he felt as if he was walking on fire with every step he took. The weapons he carried were weighing him down, though normally he never felt their weight. Even the waterskin was heavier than usual. By noon, there was nothing he wanted more than to lay down somewhere and rest, but he knew that to succumb to that would be the end. Fortunately, he did manage to find the herbs he wanted. There were the ones to bring down swelling, to numb pain and to bring down fevers. He collected all of them, thanking the Aswins. Again, in a stroke of providence, he managed to steer clear of predators, though he could hear the roars.

The sun was almost down when he found the cave again. And for one moment, he stood there just staring at it. Though he wanted to rush into it, he was careful. He held his spear ready, and lit a torch with some fallen branches. He had to ensure that no animal had taken shelter in there. He approached the cave with as much stealth as he could manage in his condition. He had not had time to apply the herbs to his ankle yet, and the pain was making him feel lightheaded. The lack of food for the entire day did not help either. His skin felt clammy, and he was beginning to feel nauseous. He took a careful step into the cave. It was empty, and he sighed in relief. He began the process of hiding the cave mouth from view using branches and stones. Then he built a small fire just inside, and built a funnel of stones to form a makeshift chimney for the smoke. He boiled some water and ground the herbs to make the herbal mixture to apply to his ankle. That done, he lay down by the fire, and gave in to his exhaustion.

It was a small sound that woke him. His fire had gone out, and the cave was cold. He judged the time to be around dawn. He was feeling more refreshed after the long sleep. He checked his ankle and found that the swelling had reduced. The pain was also not so intense. He rose gingerly, picking up his knife in one hand and the spear in another. Using the shaft of the spear as a crutch, he limped to the front of the cave. There had definitely been a noise. He soon found it. A couple of birds were on the ground, pecking at something. But even as he took one more step, they took flight screeching. His stomach grumbled loudly reminding him that he had not had anything to eat for a while. He went to the river, filled his waterskins, washed himself and his clothes and caught a couple of fish. He cleaned the fish there itself, burying the remains deeply, and carried the cleaned fishes and a couple of flat stones, leaves and sticks that he had cleaned in the river. He had no cooking utensils except for the small pot which he used for food and medicines. He also carried some dry sand wrapped in a leaf. He did not think he’d be able to make the trip to the river too frequently till his ankle was healed.

He cooked the fish, wrapping it in leaves and burying it in the coals. There was no seasoning, but he had never tasted anything so heavenly, not even in the royal palace of Hastinapura. After that, he made the medicines once more to apply to his ankle. Then, he started checking his weapons. None of them were rusted or blunted, and he picked up his bow and strung it, and then unstrung it again. He could not afford to lose any arrows. Suddenly he heard the sound of voices. He stiffened immediately, crawling to the front of the cave, and pulling a leafy branch across its mouth to hide it. He crouched behind it, looking through the leaves. He sighed with relief when he found it was only two boys. But he frowned as he recognized them. They were from the village where he had stayed while preparing the poison for the queen. He’d taught some of the boys, and he remembered these two. Veera and Vasushena. Veera had stopped coming to the lessons after a few days, but Vasushena had come till the very end when he’d decided to run for it to escape the Pradhanamantrin’s men. The death of his friend in the palace had given him enough warning. There was a reason the assassins always worked in pairs.

Vasushena had interested him even then. The boy had qualities he’d never found in any Suta. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought him a Kshatriya. Even his appearance was different than that of his parents or his brother. But Bakula had made discreet enquiries, and learned that Vasushena was indeed born and named there. His eyes and nose were definitely of Kshatriya lineage and that was what had caused Bakula to be suspicious. Of course, all Sutas were originally descended from Kshatriyas, but the features had blunted after generations, and it was startling to see them on the face of this boy. There was also his near insatiable thirst for knowledge, and his interest in warfare. Most Sutas were interested only in horses or in stories. This boy had all Kshatriya characteristics. He was large for his age too. Though only twelve, he was already the tallest among his friends, and developing fast too. There was also something vaguely familiar about his face. Of course, Bakula thought it was more likely that his mother had cheated on his father with some Kshatriya prince. It was not an impossibility. As a royal charioteer, the father was absent more often than not, and the mother was only human.

He wondered what the boys were doing so deep into the forest. They appeared to be searching for something, and Bakula feared they might discover his hiding place. They came very close when Veera straightened with something in his hand.

“Here it is,” he said. “But it’s broken.”

“Let me see,” Vasushena took it from him. Bakula could see that it was a crudely made arrow, snapped clean in half. He must have stepped on it earlier. Vasushena examined it with a frown.

“This is odd,” he said. “What could have caused it to snap so cleanly?”

His eyes searched the surroundings as he spoke, and Bakula stopped breathing. He could not afford to be discovered. Vasushena’s eyes passed over the covered cave mouth without lingering, and with a shrug, he turned to go.

“Let’s get back before Sangrama comes looking for me again.”

Bakula released his breath and sagged against the cave wall, even as he wondered what Vasushena had been doing.

Chapter Twenty Nine

The forest was dark and there were no visible paths. The trees grew so close together even daylight could not penetrate the canopy of leaves. There was barely enough gap between trunks for a man to pass through, and the ground was a network of crisscrossed tree roots, sticking up every which way. The man who leaned against one of the trees was panting. He looked around and sank down on to a root, leaning against a tree. In the gloom, he looked like a shadow.

“Bakula, this is a right mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” he muttered. “Only a fool deals with royalty and an absolute idiot deals with the Kurus. You should have known better. Let’s just hope that Pradhanamantrin Vidura is not having any spies in this place, or the length of your life’s anybody’s bet.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening. The forest was not quiet, and he could hear the sound of leaves rustling, birds chirping, and muted roars too. This part of the forest was too thick even for predators, but not for snakes. Pythons and cobras were there in plenty, but he was yet to come across one. He knew it was just good fortune, but there was no guarantee it would last. With his luck, it was quite possible that he would end up a snake’s dinner.

He got up, though he was tired. He needed to find some place safer. The lack of undergrowth here did not make it any easier for walking. He had to get out of the forest soon. If he kept going in the same direction, he would be in the mountains within a few days, or perhaps a few weeks. Either way, he was in for a long trudge. When he accepted the job, he had not expected to be fleeing for life. Some of the people in the guild of assassins had warned him. Kshatriyas could not be trusted. Neither could Brahmanas. Only Vaisyas could be depended upon to keep to the terms of an agreement. Both Kshatriyas and Brahmanas would try and wriggle out of one. But at least when you deal with Brahmanas, there was no risk of losing your life. Kshatriyas were a whole new breed altogether. They used assassins to do their dirty work, and then got rid of the assassins. Clean.

His right foot snagged in a root and he fell down, his ankle twisting. He swore. He rose gingerly, and took a few steps, not putting any weight on the injured ankle. But he knew that he was not going to make it out of the forest alive now. He sat down again, and considered his options. He could stay here and be a python’s dinner. He could try and move forward, but with his ankle, Rudra alone knew when he would get out of the forest. If he did not get devoured by a lion or a tiger or a wolf or any of the other animals that frequented these forests first. He could go back and allow Pradhanamantrin Vidura to capture and execute him as an assassin. There was a reason assassins were banned in most Kingdoms, though true to their hypocritical nature, the ruling classes were not above making deals with them. None of the options looked attractive.

Then he remembered the small cave he’d spent the night in a day ago. The cave was hidden, was secluded, and was deep enough in the woods to ensure no stray traveller or soldier was going to stumble upon it by accident. He had found it because he’d been seeking shelter. A fire at its mouth, just outside would keep animals at bay. There were deer and rabbits, and he still had his bow and arrow, and other weapons. There was also a small stream nearby. If he could make it to the cave, he could lay low till his ankle healed, and then he could be on his way. But how to make it back there? He could barely walk, and with both legs working it had taken him more than a day to reach here from the cave. With his ankle in the condition it was in, he did not think he would make it far. But he had to try. The cave was his best option so far.

He stood up again, leaning against the tree. He took out an axe from his belt. Fortunate that he was not a Kshatriya. Kshatriyas had such odd notions about weapons. He started hacking at one of the larger roots protruding from the ground. After two blows, his legs were shaking and he had to sit down, panting. His legs were still shaking. He gritted his teeth and stood up again. He might not be a Kshatriya, but he was a trained assassin, a Ghataka, and he had better tolerance for pain than this. He swung the axe again, taking care not to put much weight on his right foot. It was slow work, and he had to stop often, but he managed to cut off a stout piece which he could use as a crutch.

He limped back the way he came, stopping for the night near a large bush. He lit a fire near, and snared a rabbit. He skinned it with his dagger and roasted it over the fire. There wasn’t much meat in the animal, and it was tough and chewy, but he was so famished he finished every scrap, even sucking off the bones in the end. It was hardly filling, but it was better than starving, and he drank some water from the waterskin he had. The water was almost over, and if he could not find the stream the next day, and follow it to the cave, he would be in trouble.

He had his dagger under his arm, and his bow at arm’s reach with his spear close by and his shield over his chest as he slept. He only hoped it would be enough. He was a light sleeper, and had been trained to wake at the slightest of noises, but with his ankle which had already swollen, he knew that he was at a disadvantage, especially in the forest. He had spread dry twigs all around where he slept and had lit them on fire, creating a circle of fire. There was no dry leaves or twigs inside the circle, so he had little fear of the fire spreading even if there was not a ring of stones inside. He knew the fire would not last the night, but most nocturnal predators in these parts did not hunt late into the night. He ought to be safe enough. And he was still deep enough inside the forest that he would not attract attention from people either.

Despite the hardness of the ground, he fell asleep instantly. He was trained to sleep in all circumstances just as he was trained to wake at the slightest disturbance.

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