pounding his chest with a blow that could have lifted a full-grown buffalo off its feet. Shalya didn’t flinch. He stood on the spot and returned the blow to Bhima’s shoulder. They stood in their places and continued hammering away, one after the other.
Finally, Shalya fell.
Bhima dropped to a single knee, sobbing with relief.
YUDHISHTHIRA
M idday saw silhouettes of crows and vultures circling leisurely overhead against the stark canvas of the sky.
Shalya lay still on the ground and all of us held our breaths.
Bhima stood up, leaning heavily on his mace. He tore off his helmet and roared.
Two men lifted Shalya by his arms and he twitched violently as they carried him back to his chariot. So the old king was alive. For how long, remained the question. The chariot made its way back into the Kaurava lines. As soon as it was out of sight, Radheya’s Anga chariot archers fired straight into us and charged, supported by their infantry.
Our men in front were killed almost instantly and the men behind them wavered. Dhristadyumna sent a squadron of chariots to the front line to bolster them. I kept an eye out for Bhima. I had last seen him hobble into his chariot, an arrow clinging stubbornly to his leg.
A great clamour went up on the far right. The Anga chariots had opened their ranks. And before we knew it, our front was being run over by horsemen. I went up to Dhristadyumna, who was talking to Shikhandi, who had come in with the reserves.
‘Shakuni, I’m certain. Kambojas…hawk feathers on the spear shaft, see. ’
‘I’m on it.’
Dhristadyumna saw me and snapped, ‘You go back.’
His anger stung me. I didn’t say anything but moved my chariot rapidly in the direction of the fight. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dhristadyumna throw up his arms and turn back to the fight.
Did he really think I needed to be protected? That little strip of a general. I had seen my share of battles and didn’t need his expert opinion on my safety. Just because I didn’t like killing, didn’t mean I couldn’t fight.
I was thirteen the day we began our weapons’ training at Hastinapura. Innocent of skill and the patience required to master it. Until then, we had practised basic drills with wooden weapons. From that day, it would be different.
We were taken to the training pit before sunrise. The pit was surrounded by long wooden galleries that contained metal shields, swords and maces that were old and battleworn. I remember Nakula, Sahadeva and me along with the Kuru boys looking at these weapons with practised apathy. Inside, we were shaking with excitement. The preferred subject of fantasy every night for years was finally in front of us.
Barely out of infancy, Arjuna and Bhima had been discovered as prodigies with the bow and mace. From then on, they attended special private classes with Guru Drona himself and we never saw them except for a day or two in a month. For less gifted warriors like me or my brothers standing in a row beside me, this was our first glimpse of a world we had only heard about in the occasional excited ramblings of our two more fortunate ones.
The training pit is a cruel place for the egos of young boys, and it soon became evident that I was useless with the bow or sword. My skills with the axe or mace were marred by my inability to lift them beyond a few inches off the ground. The visions of glory fled from my mind overnight. I began to hate early mornings and found solace in books and the company of scholars.
After a particularly intensive session with swords where I had been defeated roundly by a boy much smaller than me, I flung down my blade. The entire pit fell silent. To disrespect weaponry was sacrilege here, where we offered prayers to our weapons before and after training. The instructor came up to me without any anger on his face and punched me hard on the jaw. It was afternoon when I woke up. The sword lay next to me on the ground. Training was over. But I had been left behind
Finally, Shalya fell.
Bhima dropped to a single knee, sobbing with relief.
YUDHISHTHIRA
M idday saw silhouettes of crows and vultures circling leisurely overhead against the stark canvas of the sky.
Shalya lay still on the ground and all of us held our breaths.
Bhima stood up, leaning heavily on his mace. He tore off his helmet and roared.
Two men lifted Shalya by his arms and he twitched violently as they carried him back to his chariot. So the old king was alive. For how long, remained the question. The chariot made its way back into the Kaurava lines. As soon as it was out of sight, Radheya’s Anga chariot archers fired straight into us and charged, supported by their infantry.
Our men in front were killed almost instantly and the men behind them wavered. Dhristadyumna sent a squadron of chariots to the front line to bolster them. I kept an eye out for Bhima. I had last seen him hobble into his chariot, an arrow clinging stubbornly to his leg.
A great clamour went up on the far right. The Anga chariots had opened their ranks. And before we knew it, our front was being run over by horsemen. I went up to Dhristadyumna, who was talking to Shikhandi, who had come in with the reserves.
‘Shakuni, I’m certain. Kambojas…hawk feathers on the spear shaft, see. ’
‘I’m on it.’
Dhristadyumna saw me and snapped, ‘You go back.’
His anger stung me. I didn’t say anything but moved my chariot rapidly in the direction of the fight. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dhristadyumna throw up his arms and turn back to the fight.
Did he really think I needed to be protected? That little strip of a general. I had seen my share of battles and didn’t need his expert opinion on my safety. Just because I didn’t like killing, didn’t mean I couldn’t fight.
I was thirteen the day we began our weapons’ training at Hastinapura. Innocent of skill and the patience required to master it. Until then, we had practised basic drills with wooden weapons. From that day, it would be different.
We were taken to the training pit before sunrise. The pit was surrounded by long wooden galleries that contained metal shields, swords and maces that were old and battleworn. I remember Nakula, Sahadeva and me along with the Kuru boys looking at these weapons with practised apathy. Inside, we were shaking with excitement. The preferred subject of fantasy every night for years was finally in front of us.
Barely out of infancy, Arjuna and Bhima had been discovered as prodigies with the bow and mace. From then on, they attended special private classes with Guru Drona himself and we never saw them except for a day or two in a month. For less gifted warriors like me or my brothers standing in a row beside me, this was our first glimpse of a world we had only heard about in the occasional excited ramblings of our two more fortunate ones.
The training pit is a cruel place for the egos of young boys, and it soon became evident that I was useless with the bow or sword. My skills with the axe or mace were marred by my inability to lift them beyond a few inches off the ground. The visions of glory fled from my mind overnight. I began to hate early mornings and found solace in books and the company of scholars.
After a particularly intensive session with swords where I had been defeated roundly by a boy much smaller than me, I flung down my blade. The entire pit fell silent. To disrespect weaponry was sacrilege here, where we offered prayers to our weapons before and after training. The instructor came up to me without any anger on his face and punched me hard on the jaw. It was afternoon when I woke up. The sword lay next to me on the ground. Training was over. But I had been left behind
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